”You cannot make these with an angry heart or hands they won't turn out." ~ Sorianna, Granddaughter
In a small kitchen at the
Celestial Confections Conservatoire, everything is kept neat and tidy. A warm oven glows in the corner, always scented like home — butter, flour, and something soft and nostalgic you can’t quite name. The shelves are lined with ingredients from all across the realms: rare salts in tiny glass bottles, herbs grown in the nearby garden, and a large jar of popcorn kernels that catches the morning light.
Above the hearth hangs a wide rolling pin, still faintly dusted with flour, as though it remembers the last hands that used it.
At the counter, a man hums softly to himself as he cuts shortening into flour in a great steel bowl. His hands move with reverence — each motion slow, familiar, and full of memory. The song he sings weaves itself into the dough, as if rhythm and recipe are one and the same. He has done this thousands of times, and it shows.
Nearby, his grandchildren sit at the breakfast table, munching on pancakes and fresh blueberries, waiting — with quiet reverence of their own — for his biscuits to be ready.
They smile as he brings them juice and what he calls children’s coffee — mostly milk and sugar with just a splash of the real thing.

Childhood Memories by Donna Quinquinio

Biscuits by Chris Rowell
Their laughter bubbles up as he fetches the old biscuit cutter. It’s a strange, sacred thing — dented, worn smooth with time, forged (he always says) from ancient dwarven steel. Maybe it is.
The children crowd close as he pours cool milk from the Ice Cradle into the bowl. The dough begins to form, soft and heavy with promise. Smiles and giggles fill the kitchen, warm as the oven.
He turns the dough out onto the lightly floured counter. They gather around him like stars around a sun. Sunlight spills through the windowpane, and tiny motes of flour rise to join it, dancing in the air like gentle snow.
He lets them take turns pressing the cutter into the dough, handing them each a round to place on the sheet pan.
“Jiddee! When it’s ready, I want mine with honey!” his granddaughter chimes, excitement ringing in her voice.
“I want mine with butter and grape jelly!” his grandson calls.
“How about a knuckle sandwich instead?” he teases, brandishing the rolling pin with exaggerated menace.
Their laughter spills over like a second sunrise.
They bake in his warmth as he sets the timer and leans back, telling stories from his youth — tales of running wild with a hatchet in hand, of one of their mothers once found sleeping at the top of the linen closet. He recounts how an aunt nearly opened a can of grease in their great-grandmother’s bed, and how the uncles used to sneak out at night, always getting into one kind of trouble or another.
The kitchen hums with memory and mischief, the air rich with butter and joy.
When just the right amount of time has passed — no more, no less — Jiddee opens the oven door.
Inside, in neat, golden rows, the biscuits have risen. Their tops are domed and perfect, gently browned, each one with tender layers just barely separating like petals in bloom. They are perfect.
The children scramble back to the table as he sets down a tray filled with small jars: jams of every color, honeys from wildflowers and mountaintops, and even a pat of butter shaped like a little animal — though no one is quite sure what animal it is.
It doesn’t matter.
The biscuits are ready.
And Jiddee is smiling.
This small kitchen in the Conservatoire is home to the renowned butcher, baker, and chef: James C. Rowell, known to most simply as Jiddee. He teaches here in quiet harmony, mentoring a small, carefully chosen group of students — those with gentle hands and kind hearts.
His biscuits are legendary, served in restaurants across the capital city of Thunderglade, and even once to the King himself. But their fame isn’t in the flour, or the butter, or the cutter, said to be forged by dwarves.
No — they are legendary because they are made with love, patience, and warmth.
And because they will not rise for angry hands.

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They couldn't be more legendary! I loved the story and the photo you shared, I think it's very sweet. Bravo!
Thank you much for reading. They are! I want to bake some soon!