Open Post: Who invented this calendar anyway?

[futaille]

How unfortunate.

Yes, Grantaire was fully aware that the year being longer at the mansion would logically cause seasons to drift when someone kept track of the old calendar, or at least what had been pinned down as the old calendar for convenience sake, which was almost necessary when people's arrivals weren't necessarily tied to the day they left. He hadn't given it too much thought last year, when his birthday, such that it was, arrived in spring like he was used to.

Dark, though, was unfortunate. Not inappropriate for the next notable anniversary coming up, but for this one, not at all. Of course, it wasn't as if he would have been planning much in the way of an event, Dark or no, but it would have been nice to treat himself to something or other, regardless.

Instead, he has installed himself in the game room, where he is carefully balancing dominoes on their ends to make a domino rally on the billiards table. It's a nice large flat surface, so it should work nicely. Have to keep entertained somehow.

Comments

[sagramore]

Sagramore slides the pan inside. "How long, dost thou think? Five minutes?"

[futaille]

"Worth a try. We can always put it in for longer if it's not enough."

[sagramore]

"That's a good point. All right." He programs the microwave, turns it on, and stands back.

It is... just like microwaving anything else.

[futaille]

They will be learning no important lessons today. "One almost wonders why people bother with ovens when this exists."

[sagramore]

"I have no idea! I suppose there might be some difference in the final product, but even so."

[futaille]

"Surely the convenience must outweigh whatever slight difference there is."

[sagramore]

"One would think! I really don't understand it."

[futaille]

"I think it just distills to the fact that people are strange and if you think about it too long, you'll tie your brain in knots."

[sagramore]

"Oh, is that the answer? Idiosyncracy?"

[futaille]

"Accounts for by far most of human history. Why not this too?"

[sagramore]

"That's a fair point. We're an inexplicable race."

[futaille]

"An inexplicable race that continues to inexplicably attempt to explain itself."

[sagramore]

"Isn't that what we're all doing, really? Making excuses?"

[futaille]

"I can't say you're wrong, thinking about it."

[sagramore]

"Making excuses and waiting for cake," with a sigh.

[futaille]

"At least eating the fast cake will take up a lot of the waiting time for the slow cake."

[sagramore]

"I hope it's not too sweet," he muses, just as the microwave dings.

[futaille]

"I can think of a good way to find out!" He goes and hits the button to open the microwave door.

[sagramore]

The cake is suspiciously spongy and wobbly when Sagramore turns it out on the cooling rack, but it smells chocolatey, too. He places fifteen cherries on the top and then shakes oregano flakes over that. "There!"

[futaille]

"It looks delicious. You're truly a master of random ingredients."

[sagramore]

"My thanks." A sweeping bow. "Wouldst thou do the honors?"

[futaille]

"Of course." He grabs a knife and goes to cut a slice. He pauses fairly quickly. "This doesn't... feel quite right."

[sagramore]

"How not right?"

[futaille]

"It... Come feel this. It doesn't feel sponge-y in the same way as a regular cake. It's almost like rubber?"

[sagramore]

Sagramore approaches, frowning, and as soon as he can squishes the cake with one finger. "Interesting. That's not quite what I expected."