It began with a bucket.
Not a magical cauldron. Not a chef's pot blessed by a divine food spirit. Just an old wooden bucket that was used to carry cabbage.
I stared into it like how a war general stares at a battlefield. It was my first deep fryer.
Timothy entered the kitchen and took a look at my setup. He sighed like a man who had survived too many of my ideas.
"Milord," he said gently, as if he was speaking to a dangerous lunatic, "that is a wooden bucket."
I nodded solemnly. "And so was the Trojan Horse, Timothy. Until it changed the course of history."
He opened and closed his mouth wordlessly at my remark before walking away.
That's the problem with genius. It's never appreciated in its own time.
Meanwhile, Bento was sitting by the fireplace, watching me like a disapproving grandmother. He had his suspicious asian eyes on.
Probably because I was about to drop a suspicious chunk of mystery chicken into a bucket of boiling oil balanced over a questionable-sized fire.
Let's review the setup:
Oil? Found some leftover "Dragon Pepper Oil" in the cellar. Supposedly used for massages. Who reads labels?
Heat source? A fire made from three broken chairs and Timothy's hopes.
Chicken? Let's just say a noble sacrifice had been made… complete with chicken funeral rites, a dramatic chase scene, and me yelling "It's for the greater good!" while falling into a bush.
I gently lowered the first chunk of chicken into the oil with the grace of a priest performing a baptism.
SSSSHHHHH!
The entire manor jumped as the chicken hit the oil.
The chicken chunk flailed like it was having second thoughts about being dinner. The oil hissed like it knew we were amateurs.
Soon, smoke began to rise as Bento took three cautious steps back.
Then the bucket cracked.
"IT'S ON FIRE!" I screamed.
"It's wood, milord!" Timothy shouted from the other room.
I grabbed the nearest cloth (possibly a curtain, possibly a curtain-wearing chicken) and smothered the flames. The bucket survived barely.
But the chicken chunk wasn't so lucky.
"Well," I panted. "Trial One was… enlightening."
"Enlightening?" Timothy entered and stared at the smoking wreckage.
"Every step forward begins with a spark."
"That was an open flame, milord, and a minor explosion."
"Who cares about details?"
***
What followed was a sequence that would later be known as The Frying Fiasco.
Batch #2: Too much flour. Chicken came out looking like a sad snowball.
Batch #3: Not enough oil. Chicken got fused to the pan. Pan is now chicken-flavored forever.
Batch #4: Used the wrong herbs. Chicken tasted like soap and burnt charcoal.
Batch #5: Oil was too hot. Chicken launched out of the pan, hit Bento, who now refused to come near the kitchen.
Batch #6: A chicken (alive) stole the flour sack and flew out the window like a feathered bandit. I stood there, covered in batter, watching my last hope escape like it was part of a prison break movie.
Fully defeated, I screamed into the heavens. "WHY DO YOU MOCK ME?!"
A passing bird pooped on my shoulder as if it was telling me Nature's answer.
Defeated, greasy, and slightly floury, I slumped against the wall.
"I was once a man with dreams," I muttered. "Now I'm just a man with no food."
Timothy sat beside me, holding two cups of tea. One for me. One for himself.
"I must admit," he said, sipping calmly, "this has been your most creatively destructive endeavor yet."
"Worse than the time I tried to fix the well with cheese?"
He nodded. "Marginally."
Bento cautiously padded over and sniffed the latest abomination, Batch #7. He then proceeded to lick it just once.
Then… he wagged his tail.
I blinked. "Wait… wait, was that… tail approval?"
Timothy raised a brow. "We've had six culinary failures, and your benchmark of quality is now a dog's tail?"
"You don't understand, Timothy." I stood as I picked up the piece of chicken and bit into it.
Crunch.
Then… flavor.
It was there. Slightly burnt, possibly spicy, dangerously under-salted—but the soul of fried chicken had arrived.
"This," I whispered, "this is the beginning of greatness."
***
"I need more oil," I muttered while pacing across the kitchen.
Timothy pulled out a ledger. "We're out of oil."
"Then we acquire it."
"And how, pray tell, do we afford oil when the barony can't even afford spoons?"
I grinned as I said. "We sell the chickens."
Timothy blinked. "…Was that a joke?"
"…Mostly."
He sighed and pulled out a scroll. "We may have one solution. There's an old merchant route down south. Rumors say some spice smugglers still trade along it."
I blinked. "Spice smugglers?"
"Yes."
"You had spice smugglers on speed-dove and didn't tell me?!"
"I didn't think you needed paprika, milord. Until now."
I pointed to the now-slightly-edible chicken piece. "This... this right here is the first bite of revolution."
"Or indigestion," Timothy muttered.
I spent the rest of the evening refining the idea. New oil. Proper seasonings. A pan that wasn't also a hat. The basics.
The kitchen smelled better. Still like failure, but failure with potential.
Bento stayed close. Watching and judging me with his occasional farts.
But when the next batch came out, I offered him the first piece, and he took it.
And he didn't just wag.
He howled.
Not the sad kind but the triumphant kind. The kind that says, This food made me see God for a second.
Timothy also took a piece and bit into it.
Silence.
Then, for the first time since I arrived in this forsaken barony, Timothy smiled.
"Milord," he said, "this… might actually save the barony."
I looked at Bento.
He barked.
The fryer hissed.
The dream was alive.