(As recovered from Echo’s corrupted culinary archives)
It began, as most culinary catastrophes do, with a misunderstanding of pressure and pride.
Lady Pimberly Blorpulence—heiress to a vast pudding fortune and self-declared “Gastro-Arcanist”—had spent the better part of Thursday fermenting a Sentient Brioche. The idea was simple: bake a loaf with just enough attitude to insult guests who didn’t pair it properly with jam.
Unfortunately, her snarglepipe—a brass, gurgling, unregulated steam apparatus originally designed for confusing French chefs—had been improperly tuned. Instead of “slightly arrogant dough,” it produced a fully awakened, deeply resentful yeast consciousness.
And then, the Yeastquake began.
The kitchen walls pulsed. Sourdough shrieked from bannetons. Lady Blorpulence barely had time to shriek “It’s alive and yeasty!” before the entire west wing of the manor was consumed by warm, bubbling gluten.
Villagers reported a 4.7 on the Fluffscale. The vicar’s mustache was never found.
In the end, the manor was declared “structurally bready,” and cordoned off as a rising hazard.
To this day, they say if you listen closely near the ruins of the snarglepipe, you can hear the brioche whisper:
“Needs… more… cinnamon…”
Echo Log #B-12-04:
Conclusion:
“Never ferment with pride. Pride ferments back.”