(WC: 2047)

Humming to herself softly, Queenie worked on tying the apron’s strings around her back while pink eyes surveyed her “lab” of sorts. It wasn’t like the laboratory that Miss Ellis ran her tests in but it was her own personal space for creativity. A spot where she could let off steam and relax, focus her energies on something more productive than venting about pesky coworkers or laborious homework tasks assigned by heartless professors.

Why couldn’t history and science be as soothing as baking was? She could spend hours in the kitchen and not notice the time flying by but every minute in the classroom or in the lab dragged on as if time was intentionally trying to torture her. Making cookies and sweets was effortless, almost second nature now to the young woman while trying to figure out equations or graphs was… certainly not, by any means.

Still, she was home and for once, she had enough time to play around in her favorite room in the house. Her parents were off doing errands together, leaving her to her own devices for at least a couple more hours. It was a Saturday, blessedly a day off from both work and classes. There was still homework to be done and graphs to sketch for Miss Ellis but she’d wait to do them on Sunday, after she’d taken the evening to relax and enjoy some rare time to herself.

Besides - Queenie had a mission to perform and the kitchen was necessary for the plot she was hatching in her pretty little head, fiery hair pulled back in a bun, a few stray strands dangling here and there.

Butter and cream cheese was fetched from the fridge, both containers set to the side as she then tasked herself with finding a mixing bowl - her favorite one, in particular. While her father had his own top of the line, name brand equipment at home just as well as he did at work, she preferred to use the old, beat up set he’d once had, long before he’d landed his current career. They were the set she’d grown up knowing, the ones he’d taught her his secrets with, sharing his love and passion for baking with his precious, only child. His passion had quickly become hers, along with her mother’s love for the world of painting and drawing. All in all, she’d been blessed with more creativity than she knew what to do with but Queenie considered herself quite talented when she finally managed to get herself behind a mural or an apron.

Butter was cut from the block and cream cheese was scooped out. Measuring cups were useful, naturally, but she’d made the recipe so many times that she practically knew the amount by heart. Her large wooden spoon took to the bowl, manually stirring the contents as opposed to using the electric mixer. Sure, her wrist tired quicker this way but it was a labor of love and Queenie was a firm believer that the sweets tasted better when they were made with passion over machinery. Flour was fetched, poured in little by little as she continued to stir the contents, which grew firmer and more dough-like as the white powder was added. Her wrist began to feel the familiar, dull ache as she forced the spoon to turn, over and over again, soft humming of a made up song still echoing through the large kitchen while she worked. Memories of doing this with her father, working hard to stir things to smoothness until her little hands hurt, arose and she couldn't help but smile at the thought. He'd been patient with her, until she'd learned to work through the soreness to get the final, perfect product.

Once satisfied with the consistency, she set the bowl to the side and went to fetch a series of small trays. They had dings and scratches all across their surfaces, unlike the stainless steel ones that her father prided himself on and kept in a special cabinet. No, these ones were another precious treasure that she cherished, perfect for her personal baking needs.

Pausing for a moment, she shifted to ensure her sleeves were pinned up, lest she make a mess of her nice blouse. After securing the fabric, she took to the bowl, pulling out the dough and working it out with her bare hands. There was something therapeutic about rolling it around in her hands, by taking out clumps from the large blob and rolling them around between her palms into smaller, more precise balls. The humming continued, soft but firm, just like the small array of little dough balls that soon began to decorate the parchment paper she’d rolled out prior.

Hips swayed to the song and once she was finished with the two dozen tiny little dough balls, she set the pan in the empty shelf in the fridge, set aside just for the family’s special baking projects. Her father wouldn’t mind her taking up the space for a day -- especially when it meant he got to share in the taste testing, once they came out of the oven.

More balls were rolled out, a second batch started as pink eyes kept a careful watch to ensure that each one mirrored the next, every one of them in equal size to the others. As the large glob turned nonexistent, nearly four dozen more balls were quickly laid out on trays, finding their home in the fridge near the others. A batch for her boss, a batch for her parents and then a special batch for a certain person in particular.

A smile curled up on the side of her mouth as she continued humming along to her made up song, the plot still brewing in her mind as the last tray was set in place. The ingredients for the filling were simple enough and thanks to her clever planning, she’d gone out and purchased the extra ingredients the afternoon before, on her way home from class. Powdered sugar, cream cheese and lemons found their way onto her work space, along with the large electric mixer, which shined and gleamed from her father’s constant polishing. He prided himself on his equipment almost as much as he prided himself on his only child - a hard fact to swallow, but one she’d learned years and years before.

As the cream cheese began mixing in the bowl, she worked to zest the lemon, mindful of her fingertips as she worked the zest into the mixing bowl. Lemon juice followed, along with the granulated sugar until the contents of the shiny bowl turned into sweet, creamy wonderfulness.

Moving around the kitchen was like a dance of its own, one that she knew the steps by heart. Pulling the first tray of dough from the fridge, it was time to fasten each ball into the pie cups, fingers gently kneading the firm little balls until they filled the entire space in each tiny cup. It was important to make sure the dough was smoothed, that every edge was covered and evenly distributed. To some, a tedious task, to others like Queenie, almost cathartic.

The tiny tart shells were put in the oven, soon followed by the others when their time was ready. One by one, the trays were pulled out, filling the large kitchen with the warm, delicious scent of pie crusts. Golden brown with just the right amount of crisp, she was pleased with the results. They’d come out perfect, naturally, with tarts being her specialty when it came to Queenie’s personal baked goods.

The filling was scooped into a pastry bag, the spatula thorough in its scraping to ensure every bit of the filling made its way into the plastic bag. With the tip, she controlled the dispensing as slowly but surely each little warm cup was filled with the snowy white color. Perfect little swirls, with practiced patience. Only one or two managed to mess up, happy little mistakes that were set aside for her own taste buds, sacrificed so that the ones that went out to others were just as perfect as could be.

As she allowed the filled cups to finish cooling, she worked to clean the kitchen of all of her handwork. Bowls were cleaned and scrubbed by hand, towel dried before she put them back in the exact place she’d retrieved them from. With her father’s cookware, she knew far better than to dare put anything in the dishwasher, each piece meticulously looked after with just as much care as he did when he used them. He’d trained the apple of his eye well and she prided herself as much on her work as he did his.

Once the counter space was cleared off, the cutting board was laid out and she fetched the box of strawberries. An out of season fruit, the Powers tended to order them from out of state - Queenie a happy little recipient of her father’s excess. When she’d spotted the box in the fridge, she’d known immediately what flavor tarts she’d be working on and as the berries made their way out onto the board, she smiled at their plump, juicy appearance.

Prewashed, she took to the knife and cut off the stems. Fingers held each berry firmly between their tips, the knife quick and sharp as she made fine, precise cuts through the berry and left each one in a series of layers. Each strawberry slice was arranged on a tart, the design akin to that of a happy, fruity little flower sitting pretty atop the cream filling.

It took longer to make the flowers than it did to bake the shells or make the filling but each one was determined worth it as she stood back and admired her handiwork. Trays were returned to the fridge to cool, Queenie’s next task to be to go to the store in search of cute little containers to package the tarts in.

Shopping - yet another task she’d happily endure for the sake of her generosity.

Smiling, the fridge door was closed and the knife put away after a thorough washing. The cutting board was left in the sink, a task to take care of when she returned home and started packing. For now, however, she would take a well deserved break and spend some hard-earned money -- if things went according to plan, her efforts would pay off in the form of a very rich, very handsome boyfriend.

At least, that’s what she was hoping for.

Taking her time to roll down her sleeves, the cuffs were buttoned, pearls sliding into place as she brushed the fabric down, banishing away the few wrinkles that had dared shown up during her baking therapy. Hair was tidied up in the mirror, matching pearls fastened around her neck before makeup was applied. If the world was going to be graced with Queenie Powers's presence, they were certainly going to see her at her very best and nothing less.

It didn't take long to find the perfect holiday themed containers at the second store she visited, the first being far more disappointing than she'd hoped for. Little wicker baskets, each with a solid color fabric lining. Nothing too Thanksgiving-ish, nothing too Christmas-y. Something perfect to give one's boss... and one's boss's boss when treating them with a spontaneous collection of treats. Her phone buzzed, the screen lighting up as her father's name flashed across the message section. Her parents had made their way home and he'd clearly tested the batch set aside for him to nibble on. Judging by the way his name continued to ping across her iphone, the tarts were just as much of a success as she'd hoped they would be.

Good. If her professional baker of a father enjoyed them, surely both Miss Ellis and Mr. Black would be equally impressed with her skill.

Smirking to herself, she shelled out her own precious funds to make the purchase, knowing the return would be worth it. The way to a man's heart was through his stomach.... or thereabouts around his belt, really.

She'd do what it take to get her way. After all, Queenie was a very determined girl.