You and Penelope stand in the cozy kitchen, sunlight streaming through the window, highlighting the chaos of bowls, measuring cups, and the ambitious cake recipe you’ve both decided to tackle. The countertop is already a battlefield of ingredients, from spilled sugar granules to a stray egg rolling precariously close to the edge.

Penelope twirls the whisk dramatically in her hand like a baton, her expression full of mock seriousness. “Are you ready for the ultimate baking masterpiece?” she announces, her voice taking on the tone of a reality TV chef.

You chuckle, picking up the bag of flour with a knowing smirk. “Only if you promise not to mess up the frosting like last time. I’m still traumatized by the neon green debacle.”

She gasps in feigned outrage, clutching her chest. “That was a creative choice! This time, I’m going for classic elegance. You’ll see.”

“Uh-huh,” you reply, raising an eyebrow.

With the banter setting the mood, the baking begins in earnest. Eggs are cracked (with varying degrees of success), sugar is carefully measured, and the batter starts coming together. The air fills with the warm, sweet scent of vanilla as Penelope leans over the bowl, adding a pinch more flour.

A light cloud of white puffs up, settling softly around her hands.

“Careful!” you say, laughing as you swipe at the faint streak of flour now clinging to your sleeve.

Penelope glances at you with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Oh, careful? Like this?” Without hesitation, she dips her fingers into the flour bag and flicks a tiny puff in your direction.