She tries mixing them with her hands. It's kind of yuck, but also enjoyable. It reminds her, kind of, of working on the engines, and the grease and oil that ended up covering her hands. She occasionally glances to Pradnakt to see if the progress is what's needed.

Mmhmm, good.

Next she gets out a cookie sheet, and shows Rhoda how to tilt it around so the oil she poured into it covers the whole surface. The cookies will stick, if it's not oiled, she explains.

Rhoda watches intently, and nods, because she was aware of things sticking to hot surfaces, even if that was more related to people managing to touch overheated surfaces and the way their...

She shakes her head to clear that image away (she doesn't need to think about that right now, that's not happening here). She nods again.

Eugh.

Right, so. Now we're ready to shape the cookies. You take a bit of the dough, like this, and roll it into a ball, like this. It doesn't have to be this size, you can do bigger or smaller ones for whatever size of cookie you want. And then it's traditional to put marks in the top with a fork, just to make them look a little nicer, like this.

Rhoda sets about rolling the dough into balls - about the same size as the one Pradnakt demonstrated, for no other reason that it's something to copy and that makes it easier to do something. She spaces them evenly on the cookie sheet.

It works out to fifteen little cookies; Pradnakt rolls the last three in sugar. Okay, now they go in the oven. They won't take long, and we'll be able to tell when they're done by how they smell.

She nods, but is hesitant to do anything relating to the oven itself - it's just another thing she has no experience with, and she'd really rather not break it, even if it doesn't exactly look fragile. (And she'd prefer not to burn herself as well.)

You aren't going to break it, and if you do somehow, I can fix it. But it's fine if you just want to watch. She puts the cookies in, and then gets the hot pad and spatula to show her. The pan will be too hot to touch, when they're ready, so I'll use this to hold it, to keep my hand safe, and this to put the cookies on the cooling rack.

She definitely relaxes at the knowledge that there's things to protect Pradnakt (or whoever removes the pan from the oven) from getting burned. Now she's starting to get a little excited about what these are going to taste like.

Hee. We're almost done. They'll be about fifteen minutes - impression - and then they'll need to cool for about that long.

Want to hear some more poetry while we wait?

Please?

All right.

She launches into reciting; nursery rhymes, this time. She can fill fifteen minutes with blackbirds baked in pies and dishes running away with spoons readily enough. (She declines to translate them; she'll explain nursery rhymes eventually, but not today.)

Rhoda isn't all that concerned by the lack of translation, she can still enjoy the rhythm of the words, and Pradnakt's voice.

Yeah.

The smell of cookies begins to fill the room.

Rhoda takes a deep breath and let's out an appreciative sigh.

Pradnakt finishes her poem with a chuckle, and goes to get them out.

Rhoda follows her, careful this time, not to get too close - although that seems to have more to do with the fact that Pradnakt's about to be handling a hot tray from the oven than anything else.

It goes without a hitch; she's careful, but subtly so, not to bring the tray too close to Rhoda. Once the cookies are on the cooling rack, she puts the tray and other cooking gear in the sink: I'll wash them when the tray's cooled.

She nods, but seems a little bit more focused on the cookies now, although she's still staying far enough away that she couldn't pick one up.

Waiting for them to cool is the hard part, yeah. Want to go see if Daisy's at the radio so you can talk to her? I bet she is.

Rhoda brightens visibly for a moment, and hesitates. I...if she wants to? Would be nice.

I bet she will. C'mon. She heads for the bedroom again.

Rhoda follows her, eager to talk to Daisy, but simultaneously a little worried about disturbing her.

I usually call her, nights when she's away. The town's pretty quiet at night, there's not much to interrupt her from. She sits on the bed and fiddles for a moment with a boxy machine on one of the shelves next to it, before settling back against the pillows with the microphone that's attached to it and patting the bed next to herself.

Rhoda settles on the bed next to her, a little less hesitant, and definitely eager.