I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Chapter 123 Madagascar Vanilla Bean Caramel Pudding

On Friday at dinner time, the Williams family sat around the table.

Richard used his tutoring income to add a lot more meat to his family's diet.

Margaret stewed a small pot of potatoes and onions, and made soup from the bones, so nothing was wasted.

There was also a letter on the table, with the Greenwood school emblem printed on the front, along with an open book and an oil lamp.

Richard recognized the emblem and walked past it every day when he entered the teaching building.

He roughly knew the contents as well.

Students need to decide whether to pursue a university preparatory program or a technical college program before the end of the academic year.

After completing the preparatory course, students study for two more years and then take the university entrance exam. If they pass, they can enter a higher education institution for further studies.

The technical college pathway involves a two-year practical skills training program after the final academic year, leading directly to employment upon graduation.

Richard is now in his final year of school; he chose the pre-university pathway last year.

However, back when their souls hadn't merged yet, it's estimated that even attending a local college would have been difficult.

Now, his goal is Imperial University, the most prestigious university in the capital.

This letter is from my sister Evelyn.

After summer vacation, it will be Evelyn's final year at high school.

After reading the letter, Rogers folded it along the crease and placed it next to the plate.

After dinner, Richard was reading a book in his room.

Downstairs, her father was calling Evelyn's name.

Richard placed the book face down on the table and turned his head to listen.

With the [Perception] bonus, even though the sound is far away, the general meaning can still be distinguished.

My father kept persuading me, or rather, making arrangements.

Evelyn's voice was very low at first, so low that it was almost inaudible.

About three or four minutes later, the volume suddenly increased.

He wasn't exactly yelling, but he was clearly emotional.

A few words popped out from the buzzing sound, and Richard caught the words "don't want to" and "useless".

The father's voice rose half a tone, but he quickly lowered it again.

Rogers doesn't argue with his children.

His approach is to repeat his point of view until the other party accepts it or gives up arguing.

This method can sometimes be even more suffocating than directly insulting you.

About ten minutes later, the study door opened.

Evelyn vented her anger on the steps as she went upstairs, causing the wooden planks to creak and groan.

Richard flipped the book that was face down on the table back to the front, read two lines, but couldn't get through a single word.

He got up and walked to the door.

Light shone through the crack in my sister's room door, and I could faintly hear her sniffling inside.

He raised his hand and knocked twice.

"What?" The voice was muffled, probably because the person had buried their face in the pillow.

"Open the door, let's talk."

After a few seconds of silence, the door opened a crack from the inside.

Evelyn stood behind the door, her eyes red-rimmed and her nose red, but she didn't cry.

She's very stubborn; the sadder she is, the less she wants anyone to see her cry.

Once, I fell and scraped my knee. The pain was so bad that I bit my lip until it turned white, but I just kept enduring it.

What are you doing here?

"Let's chat for a bit."

Evelyn hesitated for a moment, then opened the door.

Her room was a size smaller than Richard's, but it was very tidy.

Textbooks and stationery were laid out on the desk, and two fashion illustrations cut out from magazines were pasted on the wall.

On the bedside table was a glass jar filled with all sorts of buttons and bottle caps she had collected.

Evelyn sat down on the edge of the bed and hugged her pillow.

Richard pulled over a chair from the desk and sat down opposite her.

"I can roughly guess what Dad means."

"You already guessed it, why did you ask!"

"I want to hear what you have to say."

Evelyn rested her chin on the pillow and spoke in a muffled voice:

He repeated his explanation: diplomas are important, it's easy to find a job after graduating from university, and people without qualifications can't get by.

Then they asked me if I wanted to spend my whole life kneading dough in a bakery.

She hugged the pillow tighter.

"I said I don't want to knead dough for the rest of my life, I want to learn baking so I can open my own shop after I finish learning."

He said opening a shop requires capital, but where does that capital come from?

I suggested I work to save money first, and he said, "How long would it take to save up?"

"and then?"

"He did me a calculation," Evelyn's voice turned somewhat harsh:

"How much is the tuition for two years at a technical college? After graduation, you can't earn much money as an apprentice in a bakery. It would probably take a lifetime to save enough to open your own shop."

After calculating, they told me that if I had finished university and become a clerk or teacher in the same amount of time, I would have earned more and the work would have been much easier.

She buried her face in the pillow: "He's always like this, he has to settle accounts for everything."

Richard didn't rush to reply.

The father's logic is indeed sound.

Engineers earn more than bakers, and university graduates have a wider range of job opportunities than those from technical colleges—these are all readily available statistics.

However, the data cannot cover all dimensions.

Evelyn's math and science grades had long been at the bottom of her class, so she forced herself to take the pre-university route, which consisted of two years of pre-university study followed by three years of university. Every exam was an ordeal.

Moreover, getting into university is not a sure thing.

Of the students who go through the pre-college pathway at Greenwood each year, less than half eventually pass the college entrance exams.

The remaining half of the students spent five years and a large sum of money on tuition, only to receive a preparatory course completion certificate, which is less valuable than a technical college diploma.

When the father was doing the accounting, he implicitly assumed that Evelyn would get into college.

But this premise itself is the biggest variable.

"Have you told Dad about your desire to learn baking?" Richard asked.

"I did," Evelyn said, lifting her face from the pillow.

"I mentioned it once last semester, but he didn't take it seriously at the time, saying that kids only have a short attention span."

"Do you still want to learn now?"

"Of course I want to."

Her eyes lit up when she said this, a stark contrast to her earlier red-eyed appearance.

"The cookies I made in home economics class were said to be the best in the class by the teacher."

"It really tastes good."

"I'm not someone who only has a fleeting interest." Evelyn put the pillow aside and sat up straight.

"I started figuring it out on my own last year. I went through all of my mom's recipes and read several baking books that I could borrow from the library."

She pulled a notebook from the bedside table drawer and handed it to Richard.

The notebook was a regular lined exercise book, but she had drawn a cake on the cover with colored pencils.

When you open it, you'll find it filled with various recipes and notes.

Types and differences of flour, butter softening temperature, the effect of different sugars on texture, oven temperature and time comparison chart...

The handwriting is neat, the entries are clear, and some places even have simple illustrations to indicate the operating steps.

Richard flipped through a few pages and noticed that some recipes had crosses next to them, with the reasons for failure written next to them.

"The egg whites weren't whipped enough, so they collapsed."

"The butter was too hot, and the dough was too soft to hold its shape."

……

This is not something that can be done with a three-minute burst of enthusiasm.

Richard closed the notebook and handed it back to her.

"Have you shown this notebook to Dad?"

"No." Evelyn stuffed the notebook back into the drawer. "It's no use showing it to him; he only looks at report cards."

The light in the study downstairs was off; my father had gone to rest.

He has to work overtime tomorrow, Saturday, to save up for his child's future tuition fees.

Richard leaned back in his chair, looking at his sister.

The girl was huddled on the edge of the bed, hugging her knees, her hair disheveled, and the tip of her nose slightly red.

He suddenly remembered something:

"Evelyn, do you remember the last time we went to Grandpa's house by carriage in the capital?"

"I remember, so what?"

"On the way, you told me that you wanted to open your own bakery in the future."

Evelyn looked a little embarrassed: "That was just a casual remark..."

"People who just talk about it casually wouldn't write down most of the recipe in a book."

Richard shifted his posture: "Do you know how much head chefs in the capital earn in a year?"

"have no idea."

"More than engineers."

Evelyn turned to look at him, her grey eyes filled with doubt: "Really?"

"Seriously, the head chefs at the top ten restaurants in Beijing earn several times more than the engineers."

Of course, very few people can reach that position, but it at least shows that the ceiling for this path is quite high.

He smiled and followed the conversation to his prepared remarks.

"Speaking of which, do you know how outrageous the names of dishes at those Michelin-starred restaurants can be?"

"Outrageous? How outrageous?" Evelyn's interest was piqued.

"I flipped through a menu when I was at my maternal grandfather's house."

Richard cleared his throat and read in a serious tone, as if announcing the news:

"First course: Provençal herb-braised beef brisket, topped with Parmesan cheese crisps."

These dish names weren't made up; his [knowledge] allowed him to memorize them at a glance.

Evelyn blinked: "...Is that the name of a dish?"

"The name of a dish." Richard held up one finger. "There are even longer ones."

He cleared his throat again, this time deliberately speaking faster:

Main course: "Highland red venison tenderloin seared with brandy flame, served with black truffle potato crepe."

Evelyn's lips parted slightly: "Say it again?"

"Tempered with brandy flames..."

"Wait, wait, wait." She raised her hand to interrupt him: "This dish, translated into plain language, is roast venison with potato slices, right?"

"almost."

"Then why not just write 'Roasted venison with potato slices'?"

"Because if it were written that way, the dish would only sell for two shillings. But with that long name, it could sell for five pounds."

Evelyn paused for a moment, then suddenly burst out laughing.

"And dessert too," Richard said, seizing the opportunity.

"What's the dessert called?"

He read it out in one breath, in the tone of an auctioneer: "Madagascaramel vanilla pod caramel pudding."

Evelyn couldn't hold back any longer and laughed so hard that snot bubbles were almost coming out of her nose.

"You...you say it again, that Madagascar thing..."

"Madagascar vanilla pods, you can write that on the menu when you open your workshop."

Richard counted on his fingers as he made it up for her:

"Handmade butter cookies made using the Williams family's time-honored methods, with butter picked by Miss Evelyn herself..."

"Stop, stop, stop!" Evelyn reached out to stop him from continuing. "Your story is even more outrageous than the truth!"

"That's what star-rated hotels do: the longer the name, the more expensive it is."

"Then I'll write a hundred words for the name of each dessert and sell them for a hundred pounds each."

Evelyn was clearly in a better mood after this interruption.

Although I was still angry.

She hugged the pillow to her chest, resting her chin on top of it: "Brother, I understand everything you're saying."

The younger sister's voice returned to its usual tone, with a hint of stubbornness.

"But Dad won't listen. He only has one path in his mind: college, diploma, good job. All other paths are detours in his eyes."

Richard did not refute her because what she said was true.

"Don't rush." ​​He stood up and pushed the chair back in front of the desk.

"These things can't be rushed. Let Dad calm down for a few days."

"He won't change his mind even after a few days of calm."

"Then let's calm down for a few more days."

Evelyn glared at him: "You make it sound so easy."

"I make it sound so easy because I'm on your side."

Richard had already reached the door: "I'm going back. I have to go to Dawn's house for tutoring tomorrow morning."

"Brother... thank you."

"What are you thanking me for?"

"Thank you for making up such a long dish name to make me happy."

"That's not made up, it's true."

"That's a lie. There's no dessert called 'Madagascar Bourbon Vanilla Bean Infused Caramel Pudding'."

"It's written in black and white on the menu of the Royal Hotel. If you don't believe me, go and see for yourself later."

Evelyn snorted and pulled the blanket up to cover half her face.

Richard closed the door and went into the hallway.

Although he successfully made his sister laugh, he knew that while she was laughing, the problem was still there.