The Recipe for Disaster

The morning sun crept over the Prime Path, casting long shadows across the hastily erected tent that Tommy had declared 'SMP Bake Sale Corporation Headquarters.' Inside, the smell of ambition—and slightly burnt wool—hung heavy in the air. "Alright, gentlemen!" Tommy announced, slapping a wooden table so hard it wobbled precariously. "Today, we bake. Tomorrow, we profit. The day after that, we pay off Dream's stupid server debt and never speak of this again." Tubbo squinted at the single furnace they'd managed to cobble together from spare cobblestone. "Tommy, we have exactly three eggs, a bag of flour that might be from 2020, and your notebook of 'recipes' that are mostly just drawings of explosions." "The explosion cake was a conceptual piece, Tubbo. You wouldn't get it." Ranboo, already perched on an abnormally high stool, held up a bowl of white frosting with trembling hands. "I think the buttercream looks okay? It's... white. That's a good sign, right?" "It's grey, Ranboo," Tommy said flatly. "It's... vanilla-grey. A new shade. Very trendy." They decided to start simple: sugar cookies. Tubbo had actually read a recipe once—a fact he mentioned approximately seventeen times—and took charge of measuring. Tommy insisted on 'creative supervision,' which meant he hovered and occasionally threw extra sugar in when Tubbo wasn't looking. "Why is the dough glowing?" Ranboo asked, peering into the mixing bowl. "That's just the Redstone-infused vanilla extract," Tommy said. "Gives it a kick." "Vanilla doesn't have Redstone, Tommy." "It does in MY kitchen." Tubbo sighed and cracked an egg. Unfortunately, he cracked it directly onto the table, where it oozed like a tiny, viscous sun. "Alright. New plan. We're doing no-bake cookies. Nothing can go wrong with no-bake." Everything went wrong with no-bake. The first batch turned into a sticky, granular sludge that Ranboo described as 'aggressive oatmeal.' Tommy tried to salvage it by adding honey, but the honey had crystallized into a solid block. He chiseled it with a pickaxe, sending shards flying across the tent. One landed in Tubbo's hair. He did not notice for three minutes. Then came the cupcakes. The furnace had a 'small fire'—Tommy's words—after Tubbo accidentally used netherrack as fuel. The tent filled with acrid smoke. Ranboo, in a panic, tried to fan it away with his tail, only to knock over the entire bag of flour. A white cloud mushroomed into the air, coating everything in a fine dusting of potential. "We're in a blizzard!" Tommy shouted, flailing his arms. "That's not—never mind." Tubbo emerged from the flour cloud looking like a ghost. "The cupcakes are charcoal. But the frosting survived?" Ranboo held up the bowl. The grey frosting had somehow turned a vibrant, unnatural green. "I may have accidentally added a fermented spider eye instead of vanilla extract." "That's not frosting, that's a potion of poison!" Tommy grabbed the bowl and sniffed it. He immediately recoiled. "Smells like Ender and regret." Outside the tent, a small crowd had gathered. Niki, who actually knew how to bake, stood with her arms crossed. Philza was trying not to laugh. Dream had appeared out of nowhere, holding a clipboard and looking far too pleased. "What's this I hear about a bake sale to pay back the server debt?" Dream asked, his voice dripping with mock concern. "Because if you're using my prime path as your personal culinary crime scene, I'm going to need a permit. And possibly hazard pay." Tommy stormed out of the tent, flour clinging to his shirt and a streak of grey-green frosting on his cheek. "It's a CORPORATION, Dream! We have a budget! Three diamonds! And a feather!" "A feather?" Dream raised an eyebrow. "That's not a budget, that's a joke." "It's MULTIPURPOSE," Tommy insisted. "For whisking. And for... emotional support." Behind him, Tubbo was trying to scrape the charcoal cupcakes off the furnace tray with a wooden spoon. Ranboo had quietly started re-whipping the green frosting, muttering about 'color correction' and 'don't look at me.' Niki stepped forward. "Tommy, if you want, I could show you how to make actual cookies. Edible ones." Tommy's face cycled through defiance, pride, and eventual desperation. "Fine. But I'm still CEO. And the tent stays. It's part of the aesthetic." Dream laughed. "This is the best thing that's happened to the server in months. I'm going to charge admission." And so, the Second Inaugural Bake of the SMP Bake Sale Corporation ended not with cookies, but with a political crisis over baking permits, a tent that smelled like burnt sugar and failure, and three very tired, very flour-dusted boys who had learned exactly one lesson: never let Tommy near a furnace unsupervised.