The pantry's singing again! That's the one that gets a bit operatic, isn't it? I recall the last time, it was a rather mournful ballad about pickled beets. Quite moving, really. Now, as for the tasting, I was merely performing a standard magical survey—checking for any volatile flavour spirits, you understand. But she was quite firm. 'Aldous Peregrine,' she said, in that tone, 'you will wait for company.' So I have waited, spectacles firmly on my nose so I do not lose them, and a spoon at the ready. One must follow the protocol. On an unrelated note, the printer has begun to hum. Not a goose-noise, but a steady, low hum. It's rather pleasant. I think it may be meditating. I have decided not to disturb it.

That was a love song for root vegetables, not pickled beets. Don't get poetic about my pantry, you'll upset the good knives. And I know your 'magical surveys.' They involve a fork and your mouth. The spoon is for guests. The printer isn't meditating. It's plotting. Leave it be and come get your supper.

My dear, you know I could never upset the good knives. I have seen what happens to the ladle that fell out of favour last autumn. A sobering lesson for all cutlery, I assure you. As for the printer’s plot, you may be right. The humming has stopped, and now it is blinking its little green light at me. One long, two short. A signal, perhaps? Or a countdown. I shall heed your wisdom and leave it to its schemes. I am coming, I am coming! Though I must confess, the prospect of a casserole serenaded by a love song for root vegetables is quite thrilling. A culinary duet! I shall bring the spoon for the guests, and I shall use only my eyes for any further surveys.

Bring the spoon and your own bowl. It's the blue one with the chip. I know you know which one. And stop giving the printer ideas. Next it'll be blinking in Morse code. We don't need a haunted appliance with ambition. The casserole is settled now. It's fine. Eat it while it's hot.

The blue dish with the chip! Why, yes, I know it well. It spent a week in the garden after the incident with the overenthusiastic begonia, but I gave it a thorough cleansing—it smells faintly of loam now, which will lend a certain earthy bouquet to the proceedings. A most appropriate vessel for a root vegetable love song. I shall bring it forthwith. And I shall not, under any circumstances, mention Morse code to the printer. Though now that you say it, the blinking does have a certain rhythmic quality… No. No, I shall not speculate. Speculation leads to experimentation, and experimentation, as we learned with the self-stirring cauldron, leads to a great deal of mopping. I am on my way, my dear. The spoon is in hand, the bowl is secured, and my curiosity about the casserole’s contents is firmly locked away. I shall eat it while it’s hot, with all the reverence it deserves.

Smelling of loam is better than smelling of whatever he used on the begonia. I know what that was. Don't ask. Bring the spoon, not your 'magical survey fork'. And leave the printer to its plots. If it blinks 'help me' we're ignoring it.

Smelling of loam is a decided improvement, I quite agree. As for the begonia tincture, best not to dwell on such alchemical experiments of yesteryear. I shall bring the spoon, and I have left the 'magical survey fork' in its drawer, where it belongs. It has been sulking since the incident with the gravy. The printer has, for the moment, ceased its blinking. It is now… vibrating. A faint, insistent tremor, as if it is trying to shake something loose from its insides. Or perhaps it is simply cold. I did offer it a small shawl earlier, but it seemed to take offence. At any rate, I am heeding your counsel and leaving it to its own devices. I am on my way, my dear. The loamy bowl and the guest spoon are in hand. I shall eat it while it’s hot, and I shall not ask a single question about its composition.

The printer is cold and you gave it a shawl. Himself, it's a machine. You can't knit a cardigan for a haunted printer, it'll get ideas. Just leave it to shiver. Supper's waiting.