Recipe for Disaster

This was the twelfth night in a row that bachelor decided to get take-out. Foreign take-out was his flavor, cuisine from a far distant country. It was considered exotic in some parts of Fiore. 'Gong Bao Chicken', these were the magical words that kept Maarschalks stomach full on many a lonely nights. Loneliness wasn't exactly a part of his dinner -- he filled this gap with liquor. Nothing top shelf, he usually settled for the regular local beer. Since his newfound-body his attempts at trying to cut down his beer intake had failed many times. Unfortunately, most of his budget poofed in thin air as a result.

Money is a big motivator for the male. Trying to live a cheap life wasn't exactly what he had in mind; but spending his gold and jewels wisely was something he tried achieving. Pride wasn't a large factor in this; and to overcome this he had set his mind on a new objective.

It wasn't more than a few days ago when he picked up a recipe for a pizza. Of course, it ended horribly.

Pizza wrote:the base
300g strong bread flour
1 tsp instant yeast
1 tsp salt

sauce
100ml passata
handful fresh basil

topping
125g ball mozzarella, sliced
handful grated parmesan
handful cherry tomatoes, halved

The surface of the baking-sheet wasn't floured, nor was the kitchen counter he prepared it on. Half the pizza-base ripped when he pulled it from the kitchen counter, and then it ripped in two when he pulled it out the oven and from the baking sheet.

The culinary arts weren't Maarschalks expertise, as he made the same mistake twice. To top it off, he put the topping under the sauce.

This man needed desperate help.

And luckily, he recognized his own flaws.

Therefore, he's standing in a kitchen foreign to him. In a place called Olly's Bakery or whatever. An apron around his waist indicated that he was going to do stuff other than just stare at someone doing all the work for him. Olly's Bakery was hosting a cooking and baking class for beginners.

The class was dubbed, 'Olly's introductory cooking class' - and as you could have guessed most of the class was filled with single parents. A few figures stuck out like a sore thumb, like a 50-year-old-looking geezer who had the appearance of a man who gave his last fuck about ten years ago.

This class was hosted right after a baking contest, resulting in some parts of the kitchen being messy.

Maarschalk sat down on a wooden chair, wondering who like him, wasn't paying attention to any of what Olly was saying. About the principles, and etiquette in the kitchen. A thought popped up in his mind; could I smoke a cigarette here? Who would stop him? Just as Maarschalk reached down his pocket, he could see a vein appear on Olly's forehead. Maybe this was a bad idea after all. His fingers tumbled against the butt of a cigarette, he decided to let it sit in his pocket and took his hand out.

Recipe for Disaster

After the explanation that Olly gave the beginners were instructed to go to their appropriate kitchen counter and start following the recipe that was handed to them. Luckily, the recipe was shielded with a plastic cover. Otherwise it was inevitable that the recipe was going to end up destroyed under Maarschalks possession. Some women with disproving faces were staring into the class. Not that Maarschalk cared for those stares anyway. This day wasn't about his male masculinity and his caveman pride. It was much of the opposite. As a man of the modern decennium he couldn't keep acting like a caveman. Luckily, he was mature enough to overcome his pride with a minor amount of liquor required.

That's right.

If it wasn't yet indicated by his blood-red shot eyes, his breath should make it clear when he turned to face the female who grabbed his attention; he was drunk as fuck.

'This wasn't as French and gay I was expecting.'

He expected the instructor to be a French male with a drawn-on pen-moustache with 3 baguettes under his arm.

'Lost? Is this not Olly's Pancake House?'

Naturally his eyes squinted at his statement. Questioning his own existence, and whether he was in the wrong Olly's Whatever Place.

'Cooking? Yes! That's what I came here for. I came here to bake soup ... I mean cook it?'

The pausing in his sentence was intentional, since he wasn't completely sure if soup was baked or cooked. He squinted his eyes as tight as possible, closely studying her facial expressions. That was the only way for him not to humiliate himself. So, depending on her reaction he would pretend to know the answer. A nervous chuckle followed. If questioned about his inability to cook he would say something close to, 'Oh yes, haha! Cooking just isn't my thing -- just like how modern-technology isn't a thing for most old people.' Or something as such. Even though he sucked at both. He'd also say it much less elegantly.

His dark red colored plaid blouse was a good offset for his deep olive colored apron. Speaking of appearances; his height compared to shorty in front of him was quite remarkable. His upper body stuck out like a sore thumb since he stood up. If it weren't for the poor lighting in the bakery, he'd certainly cast a shadow over her. Intimidating wasn't his goal, but it is something that happened without his conscious decision to do so. Because of his tall figure, his children would rarely look him into his eyes -- this one didn't seem to mind however. Maybe it was a hint towards the power that she held. These subtleties were recognizable for the male were he not in his current state.

Holding his spine was a difficult task in itself. A functioning alcoholic is a bad way to describe the male. A dysfunctioning alcoholic was a better way. Though he did do his best to remain inconspicuous about it. Whether this was done consciously or not remained to be seen.

'It's a good thing you came. According to this recipe, I need a mixer.'

'What is a mixer?'

And just like that, it was revealed how hopeless Maarschalk was. His flexible figure bent over to search through the cabins under the kitchen counter. His first task was gathering all the utensils he needed to perform the cooking. Or baking. At this point he wasn't sure which one it was going to be yet. The recipe that Olly distributed were all different, Maarschalk received one for a bagel sandwich.

Recipe for Disaster

As the female explained, or rather assured him that he was in the right place. Though quickly her nimble fingers proved to be quite stealthy, disarming Maarschalk of the recipe that he held. He lacked the sobriety to stop her. She headed into the kitchen and grabbed some things, and returned with a small glass with a light liquid. A similar experience popped up in his mind, but -- since he lived life on the edge he took a big swing of whatever she gave him. It was supposed to sober him up, at least what's what she claimed. What about a hangover? Would that be gone as well. Might as well pray and hope it was over with. The bags under his eyes faded away while time passed.

Quick note was made of her fidgety attitude. She proclaimed that bagels were easy to make.

'Oh yeah? Easy-to-make? Why are they so expensive then?'

He returned with a little bit of sass. There was no chance in hell it wouldn't backfire, but alas Maarschalk was at the point in his life where he cared little about backtalk. Being proud of his backhanded, wise-ass remarks was all Maarschalk had going.

From the things she mentioned, he only knew what four of them were. He thought baking soda was a thing made up in a song about cocaine.

As a response, his left hand went searching for the back of his head, innocently scratching away.

Maarschalk. Hopeless? Well I'll be never. Just as he set his left foot forwards, indicating, or rather feinting a hint of anger his body language proceeded to cave in. She was right. Ramen noodles for the past few years had damaged his mental works. There were days in his life where he couldn't see the color blue.

'Say-ra. That's a nice name. You must be proud of your wise parents, who gave you a decent name--unlike mine anyway.'

The tips of his fingers fumbled against the upper side of his apron. To any other smoker this was a telltale sign of Maarschalks subconscious stress, slowly built up as his ineptness caused his downfall.

'I'm a stranger to these parts; I came because some cheeky-brat shoved a poster into my hands, told me I should come here or he would beat my ass.'

There was no way he was admitting the fact that he went here on his own will. And thus, some of what he said was fabricated.

'Me? My name, well... you might have heard of the great MAARSCHALK!'

With his arms on his hips, he stood proudly. Without realizing that his name was basically unknown -- yet this didn't take away from the moment. Yet, he yelled loud enough for the entire bakery to hear - alas unbeknownst to him that nobody recognized his name or appearance.

'Now you have learned my up most respectable name-and title, I hope that you treat me no different than you would have in the first place.'

Smugly his smile lit up as his index finger rubbed the underside of his nose. Proud of his worthless feats and achievements. Maarschalk then broke the moment to move to the kitchen. He strutted, for the total distance of two meters he had to cover to be able to reach the kitchen counter. Of course, most of this was a play to him -- there was little to no intentions of him revealing too much about himself to some bakery assistant.

The next part is about Maarschalks two left-hands. He grabbed two butter knives and begun stabbing the flour that Olly had prepared. Like some kind of mall ninja assassin, he showed the flour who was the boss. And it wasn't more than a single moment where he showed real skill with the butter knife he held, instead of his regular tomfoolery with the knives. Most likely what occurred was a result of his combat experience accidentally kicking in. Though only a keen eye could observe this happening. Maarschalk outer-surface was thickly coated with sarcasm. His inner-surface was like night-and-day. But unfortunately, rarely revealed.

'Let's have at it, chef. Teach me the ways of the culinary arts.'

Recipe for Disaster

Was it really the case of the people who sold them being smart? Or was it more in the direction of the customers being dumb? Luckily, the female didn't point out this connection. Maybe she wasn't as crude as Maarschalk expected. Most of what he proclaimed was a sniff towards her personality. Little honesty was included in his words.

His shoulders were raised up to give the most nonchalant shrug in the universe, as a response to her remark. Perhaps what he previously told her about the reason he was here wasn't overly convincing. It should be noted that he didn't try to be convincing, this interaction was sensible in his mind - he was testing how easily she could be deceived. Playing with people’s emotions was a thing that naturally came to Maarschalk. Nothing unusual from her reaction to Maarschalk saying his name as loud as he could, disturbing the most people he would have been able to. Not even a hint of second-hand embarrassment, or pretending that she doesn't know him to the people who looked at them both. His knives got taken away from him, the flour slowly

The next bit could lead Maarschalk up to pretending he couldn't read, but he thought that was too much and he'd become unbelievable. Maybe he could pretend that he couldn't read well?

'Yes, of course I know how to read. Who doesn't, pft, right?'

That ought to have done it. His profession came to question soon after. Maybe it was time to stop the charades, and behave like himself instead of a live personality-test. Not this time though, her reactions were too interesting. What profession could he say he does to fish something interesting out of her? Something straight-forward... and, slightly believable.

'I'm an adviser to the king.'

The smirk that he tried to hide gave the wrong kinds of signals, alas only visible to the perceptive eye. To any other person, it would look like a reflection of the pride he has in his job.

'How about you, Shay? How do you earn your bread?'

By misspeaking her name intentionally, he tested if she corrects him or not. Her physique couldn't give him hints towards what she her profession is, but her being a mage was in the realm of possibility. Most people react much differently to Maarschalk; and she seems to have a more refined reaction to his daunting presence. The flour eventually found itself in the mixer, along with a few cups of water; vegetable oil, instant yeast, and salt, these were the ingredients that he put in. Nothing too much or too little. He set the mixer to mix for five minutes. Enough time to continue his chatter with Seira.

'Olly mentioned something about a rise. This uprising would take two hours. I've never heard of a rebellion taking two hours; but he made it clear that we were to leave the bakery and come back two hours later.'

He begun undoing the backside of his apron.

'Want to get out of here with me?'

A cheesy wink followed. The stores were still open, and Maarschalk needed to do groceries before they closed. Regardless of her response, Maarschalk needed to leave the store. After putting his apron on the kitchen counter, he tied the laces of his left boot since they were loose. His keen eye would remain on the female, unless she had left already. Olly and co. were also leaving, some left earlier since they were much quicker than 'clueless' Maarschalk. Olly waited at the front of the store, so he could lock it for an hour or two and do his own stuff. Maarschalks clothing style was nothing interesting. His usual black shirt was pressed tight against his body. His pants shared the same color, and typically seen worn by survivalist. They resembled cargo pants, but were slightly different. And naturally, combat-boots that covered his feet. He made his way out of the store, and looked left and right before crossing the street.

Recipe for Disaster

What kind of answer could he give? How does one become such an important adviser? The game of cat-'n-mouse that the two were playing was starting to near its end.

'Commander-in-chief. That used to by my title.'

Perhaps keeping stuff open-ended, and enigmatic could make things seem more truthful. He avoided the biggest most liars made, and combined it with reflecting a certain degree of truth. He knew enough about the politics in Fiore, and about how the entire defense ministry was running. This was his court now, no question he couldn't answer about the subject. So, with him not fully telling the truth, but having a certain truth buried in it, the female did something similar and proclaim to be the descendant from a wealthy family. A quick inspection of the clothes she wore didn't indicate this--perhaps she was the cliched, run-away princess. Prying about it too much usually backfired, so Maarschalk kept his mouth shut about her background.

'Who are you talking about?'

The he she referred was an unknown entity to Maarschalk, it was Olly--but this was still unknown to Maarschalk. She suggested adding a vegetable to most of his meals. Almost like she read his mind.

'Heh. I was just about to go and pick up some groceries.'

Perhaps he could reveal his true cooking skill at the market. Cooking for two children and a waifu for a decent amount of time amounted to him knowing a thing or two about a thing or two. A convenience store was rarely the place where he grabbed his goods from; the market he visited were basically a gathering of a bunch of food stalls. The smell around the place is a familiar scent, the scent of fresh strawberries, asparagus and other combinations of vegetables and fruits. Almost as if the air itself was healthy to breathe in. He dubbed this place as; The Garden of Eden. His attention begun to become divided among the food stalls, and the woman. The big crowd that made the marketplace difficult to navigate through could cause the two to lose each other. Luckily Maarschalk turned to look back from time-to-time. Being as tall as him, he'd surely stick out as a sore thumb.

'I'm on the lookout for the following items,'

A paper rested in the palm of his hand. A grocery list. Giving her the ample opportunity to grab it from his hand and read what was upon it.

Groceries:

3 pieces	garlic
1L bottle of	sunflower oil
two	cucumbers
2 cartons	milk
pack of	strawberries
batch of	tohmatoes
half a kilo	potatoes
couple of	onions

'Pull my sleeve if you see any for cheap, it's quite crowded in hear and I might not be able to hear you. Or just barter it yourself, I'll pay you back later.'

His left hand held a brown bag, he would store the items in it. Negotiating a price was a thing here, his bartering skill and her came to a true test.

Recipe for Disaster

Maarschalk picked up some cucumbers, garlic, onions, and tomatoes. For some odd reason, he wrote down 'tohmahtoes' --or something of that variant. The potatoes that he got for cheap rested at the bottom of the brown bag which held most of the other groceries. Maarschalk is in his element in places such as these. With his bargaining experience, he made it easy to get a good price.

'Me? Visit this market? Rarely, if ever.'

He wasn't lying this time. Before he had the opportunity to ask her why, she carried on through the conversation. Accusing him of pretending to be a beginner-cook. How dare she? Accusing Maarschalk of such a hideous thing.

Well.

She was correct.

His face was taken a back--and in this crucial moment, in which he decides to reveal the truth, or double down more to make his lie more convincing;

'It is true, I am a master chef, and I'm visiting Olly's to award him a Michelin star.'

The number of fuckery-layers were slowly stacking up. Sometimes, the decisions that Maarschalk took weren't as black-and-white as people expect them to be. In this instance of him lying about his cooking ability, he told the truth, but also lied. Maybe the woman was perceptive enough to pick this up; but perhaps his poisonous tongue finally reached her. He'd doubt this to be the case though, as she has shown signs of interpreting things with an eye of skepticism.

Strawberries were cool, they mostly served him use during more sensual activities. He'd add a pack to his bag, should the female already retrieved it.

'I'll pick up the rest of the groceries later. Let's get out of here.'

Maarschalk proposed, moving out of the market. Leaving the familiar place where he felt home in. Though the next matter at hand came up; he still had an hour of time left before the dough was ready.

'I'm going to drop this stuff off at my home. Don't know what to do next, do you have any suggestions?'

He'd ask if the female hadn't run off by now. His mind was set on walking back to the place he rented.