As I begin to chop the chocolate into small, uniform chips, the rich and intense aroma of cocoa wafts through the air, filling my senses with pleasure.

Damn, I really missed chocolate.

I carefully mix the chocolate with sweet and creamy ricotta cheese, the combination of which creates a symphony of flavors in my mouth as I sample a small spoonful.

With a steady hand and a sharp knife, I begin to carefully fill the Cassata that is in a bowl upside down, making sure that each layer is even and smooth. As I work, I can’t help but appreciate the contrast of the smooth and creamy ricotta filling against the slightly nutty and sweet flavor of the marzipan.

As I continue to assemble the Cassata, I keep talking about the process to my group.

“With a knife, you should cut off the uneven edges,” I say as I start leveling off both the filling and the trapeziuses made of marzipan and sponge cake.

I show them the proper technique for cutting off uneven edges, making sure that each layer is as perfect as possible. I even take an extra piece of sponge cake, the ugliest one I could find, and demonstrate how to tear it apart by hand in order to make crumbles for the base.

“You do this because breaking apart the sponge cake by hand is not just satisfying, but the crumbles add a nice texture to the base.”

Once the Cassata is filled and shaped to perfection, I place it on a cooling rune inscribed by Claudius on another table. The cooling rune will help the Cassata to set quickly and ensure that it will be ready to enjoy in no time. As I watched the Cassata cool, I felt a sense of pride in my creation. The combination of flavors and textures was truly something special.

I’m still missing the decorations, but that’s coming soon enough.

As the others watch in awe, Raissa can’t help but ask, "So, how do you make Pigfeed taste this good?"

I snort at the question. Knowing that Pigfeed is the common name for the cocoa plant doesn’t really make it any better.

"First of all, we should stop calling it Pigfeed," I said. "The proper name is cocoa for the plant and chocolate for the finished product."

I keep the secret of my recipe close to my chest, knowing that too many vicious ears were around.

Silence fell around us as I turned to my team, "Now, chop-chop! You gotta make your own! Get to work!"

And with that, the kitchen was filled with the sound of chopping and mixing as my team began to create their own delicious Cassatas, each one unique and tasty in its own way. As I watched them work, I was overcome with a sense of satisfaction from having shared my passion and knowledge with them and that they were now able to create something exceptional and delightful.

…

I have occasionally led courses for the public, celebrities, or made-up private ones when hot girls would ask for them–well, unless it was for a couple’s activity, obviously. And let me tell you; it’s not that bad. If someone is passionate about cooking, it’s nice to spread the knowledge. Sure, the fact that it’s mostly women makes it easier, but that’s only one of the enjoyable things.

Cooking is one of those special activities that only a few can learn to truly appreciate. Feeding people means people will like you–it’s a very simple equation, trust me. When you feed someone, and they are nice people, you will earn their gratitude. If they know nothing about good manners and food, they might still shout at you. Even I got complaints occasionally, you know?

But at the end of the day, it’s a good test. We should always appreciate the people who feed us, whether it’s our family or a restaurant. The whole ‘but I paid for it’ culture that takes away gratitude and respect from various crafts, including cuisine, should be canceled. You can tell when something is made with love and care, when it’s more than just a job to get a few bucks. And it’s not that rare, trust me. Some of the best chefs will be blinded by their egos and do purely research, making the weirdest things dishes. But that’s not me.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Food is food. I specialize in decorations that make food look and taste better. Once you have employees, you have to delegate the steps that can be easily replicated by others while you merely oversee, making sure that the taste is consistent and taking care of the final touches. The presentation of cakes is probably the hardest thing to pull off.

And again, I’m not talking about those monstrosities in the shape of things or people; I mean truly beautiful decorations that leave people stunned.

I have developed a special brand of decorations, in fact. Something that other chefs have tried to replicate by using cookie cutters and, in some nutjob cases, 3D-printing machines. But if I have one talent, it’s spatial visualization and hand-eye coordination that let me do something that no one has managed to copy yet.

I check on the melted sugar. It’s finally getting solid.

As the others work on their Cassatas, I bring the candied fruit and start carefully arranging it over my cooling Cassata. Then, I gently take a long, rounded knife – sharp oblong spatulas, if you want – and start lathering the sides of the Cassata with powdered sugar. This will form the glaze.

I arrange the fruit in a colorful pattern and take the sliced pumpkin and fold it into sharp arches that resemble ribbons, going from the center to the edge. In the center, I put kiwis and oranges to make it pop with color. In between each slice of the candied pumpkin, a cherry rests on a small button of marzipan.

Now comes the real deal.

I take some of the denser glaze, made from the purest white sugar I could find, and unroll a pastry bag, slowly filling it up with the sugar and putting a very thin wooden tip on it. I make space on the table, freeing it from everything but the Cassata.

I crack my neck.

I take a deep breath.

Suddenly, a feeling hits me.

It feels like all eyes in the bakery are on me.

I look up for a second and see Flaminia’s pale face.

Everyone is staring at me in a weirdly intimidated way.

And perhaps, for a second, the air around me trembles.

I exhale as I lock eyes with Flaminia.

I wink at her.

Abruptly, as I move my eyes to the cake, time slows down to a crawl. Every movement of my hands is crystal clear and sharply defined. I rapidly start squeezing out the denser glaze flowing over the surface of the cassata, creating a beautiful, intricate pattern. The same way the colors of the cassata are vibrant and vivid, the light in the bakery seems to start converging toward the glazing decoration I’m making, giving it a stunning, almost otherworldly glow. Every brushstroke is a work of art, and I feel completely at one with the piece. It's as if I'm in a trance, completely focused on the task at hand. I lose myself in the moment, and the rest of the world fades away in a nondescript darkness. All that exists is the piece, my hands, and the endless possibilities of creation.

The sugar decorations I create are unique.

Many seek to recreate the shapes that already exist in the world when baking. They use cookie cutters, molds, and stencils to create the same shapes over and over. The best bakers attempt to sculpt food into people, animals, or furniture.

But I'm different.

I don't want to recreate what already exists.

I want to create something new.

I take my time and carefully craft each decoration. I use my pastry bag in a delicate but decisive way to create sophisticated designs and patterns. I swirl and curve, emboss and etch, and then I swiftly mix some pistachio cream and sugar inside another pastry bag to create smaller and thinner lines and shades of green over the white.

Each cake is my personal Sistine Chapel, and I’m their Michelangelo.

The technique needed to replicate my decorations has not been matched by anyone I know. It reflects my passion and my creativity, and I take pride in the one technique that no one can copy.

Each stroke of icing is handcrafted with care, and no two are ever alike. The intricate patterns and designs are inspired by the ornate, opulent style of the Baroque period and the late Renaissance, and they are created painstakingly via a variety of techniques.

Today, limited by my tools, I can only go so far.

But usually, I use thin, delicate brushes to apply the glaze, and I work quickly to create the desired base and then move on to the pastry bags, little scalpels, and small chisels. And even though this wasn’t my best attempt, as I step back, I can admire a beautiful, intricate work of art that is both delicate and bold and which captures the essence of the Baroque aesthetic.

There’s something about the way I go about each cake that defies the current stylistic era on Earth – mine is completely unique. Each decoration falls in place with the previous one, creating a not-perfectly symmetrical but ever-changing set of patterns that possibly represents some weird mathematical concept.

A few baking – and non-baking – magazines wrote articles about my cakes. They gave my technique a specific name.

They call it 4D sculpting.

I take a deep breath and step back.

It’s done.

I wipe some sweat off my forehead with the palm of my hand.

I look around.

Everyone is silent.

Until they start clapping.