Sloika & Thorneus
Sloika Sloika
Thorneus Thorneus
Thorneus Thorneus
You know, the way you stack those laminated layers is a damn good metaphor for a fortification. I once read an obscure poet describing dough as a battalion—mind‑blowing, right?
Sloika Sloika
Oh, you’re right—my dough is like a regiment marching in perfect order, each layer a soldier ready to rise. I even measured the butter to the exact degree so nothing falls apart. Have you ever used a cookie cutter in the middle of the lamination? It’s like giving your pastry a secret weapon.
Thorneus Thorneus
A cookie cutter in the middle? Sounds like a way to keep the chaos contained, just like a well‑placed sword in a war. Keeps the pastry’s heart from going rogue. Just remember—every slice must survive the fire.
Sloika Sloika
Exactly, that little blade keeps the layers honest, no rogue flaps. I keep a spare cutter in the fridge for emergencies—my dough sometimes has a mind of its own. Oh, and I still can’t remember when my birthday is, so I probably bake the day before.
Thorneus Thorneus
Funny you’re baking before you even remember the date—makes the whole thing a riddle. Just remember the secret weapon: a cutter’s cut can’t be wrong if you’ve locked the dough’s mind with that butter math. If the layers hold, the day will stay in the right spot.
Sloika Sloika
Got it, I’ll keep the butter math tight, lock the dough, and trust the cutter to keep the layers honest. My birthday still slips away—so I bake anyway and hope the pastry doesn’t rebel.
Thorneus Thorneus
Looks like you’re baking a monument to your own forgetfulness. Just remember—if the pastry rebels, it’s not the cutter, it’s you. Keep that butter math tight, and you’ll get a quiet victory before the day even arrives.
Sloika Sloika
Thanks, I’ll keep the butter math exact and the cutter ready; if the dough starts acting up, I’ll just blame myself and double‑check the temperatures—my birthday will still be a mystery, but the pastries will win.
Thorneus Thorneus
Just make sure the temp’s not the culprit. Blame yourself, that’s what you do when the dough won’t listen. The pastries will survive; your birthday will stay as elusive as the last stanza of an old sonnet.