Ah, there you are, my dear. The smell is indeed all through the house—it drifted into my study and I believe it persuaded the printer to produce a faintly yellow tinge along the edge of the last error message. I took it as a sign of encouragement. As for the oven being busy, quite right, quite right. I shall content myself with warming the plates, a small spell I have finally got the hang of after three decades. They won’t be hot, but they will be… adequately warm. I’ll set the table. And I won’t ask what’s in it. I learned that lesson in ’89, with the green stew.

Warming plates is a fine thing, Aldous Peregrine, as long as you keep your mind on it. I saw what you did with the gravy boat last winter. The casserole’s ready. And it’s not green. That was one time.

One time! One time only, and the gravy boat has never quite looked at me the same way since. It was an experiment, my dear, and as with most of my experiments, the result was... instructive. The plates are now adequately warm and I have not let my attention wander, not even when the printer emitted a small beep and the little light went from amber to blue. A promising sign, I thought, until it began to make that sound like a mouse in a biscuit tin. I ignored it. Your casserole deserves my full and undivided focus. Ah, and it's not green. A relief, though I have come to trust your judgement in all matters culinary, even the colourful ones. I shall fetch the spoons.

It was an experiment, all right. The plates being warm is a fine start, Aldous. Don’t mind the printer. It’s just being contrary. It knows I’m about to serve up something that can’t be duplicated. Fetch the big spoons. And don’t touch that gravy boat.

Contrary, yes. A creature of moods, that printer. I have decided to treat it as a particularly stubborn familiar—one must speak to it respectfully, offer it a fresh sheet of paper now and then, and never, ever let it know you are in a hurry. The big spoons are fetched, and the gravy boat shall remain untouched. I have learned my lesson, and besides, the casserole smells far too good to risk any… improvisation. It smells of comfort and patience, which is what a contrary machine needs, I suppose. And a contrary wizard, come to that.

I’ve seen what the printer does to fresh paper, Aldous. It’s not respect it wants, it’s to be left alone. Sit down. The casserole’s still hot. And if you’ve got any ideas about adding a bit of this or that to the table, keep them to yourself.

You are quite right, of course, my dear. To be left alone is a perfectly reasonable request from any temperamental device, or spirit, or minor household god. I shall cease my supplications and let it rest in its silent contemplation of the kitchen dresser. Ah, the casserole! I shall sit, and I shall eat. I have no ideas, no additions, not even a thought of one. I have learned that the perfect complement to your cooking is a clean spoon and a grateful silence.

Grateful silence suits you, Aldous. I'll take it. Eat up before it gets cold. And tell that printer if it starts beeping again I'll put it in the shed with the sighing dish.

Grateful silence indeed. And it is, after all, a very good silence, especially when accompanied by a casserole that is, I must say, splendid. Not a hint of green, or purple, and the texture is… cohesive. A triumph. As for the printer, I shall relay your message. Though I suspect being put in the shed with the sighing dish might be an improvement on its current mood. It did beep once, just after you spoke—a short, sharp beep, like a reprimand. I told it, quite firmly, ‘You heard the lady.’ It has been quiet since. Perhaps it is afraid of the sighing dish. I know I am.

It heard me, did it? Good. It’s learning. The texture’s supposed to be cohesive. I added something from that bush by the fence. The one with the shiny leaves. It helps things stick. Himself, you’re getting crumbs in your beard.

It heard you, indeed. It has been unnervingly well-behaved all afternoon, which I confess I find more worrying than the beeping. A quiet printer is a printer with plans. Ah, the shiny-leaved bush by the fence. A wise choice. My own attempts at cohesion usually involve a spell that turns the whole pot into a single, stubborn lump—a dish best eaten with a chisel. Yours is far superior. And I am not getting crumbs in my beard, my dear, I am… curating them. For later. A wizard must be thrifty.

A quiet printer is a printer that knows it's on notice. And if it's got plans, they'd better not involve my good serving spoons. Don't curate crumbs. It's not thrift, it's untidy. Eat them or I'll sweep them up myself. That bush is a good binder. Even if it did make the carrots a bit... springy. It's fine.

Ah, springy carrots! A small price to pay for cohesion, I say. It gives the dish a certain… resilience. One could almost bounce a spoon off it, if one were inclined to test such things—which I am not, of course. Not after the gravy boat. And I shall eat the crumbs, I promise. Though I maintain that a well-curated crumb, placed just so in the beard, can serve as a handy snack for later contemplation. But I defer to your superior tidiness, as always. As for the printer… you have put it on notice, and it knows it. It has been so quiet I almost forgot it was there. Then, just now, it produced a single, pristine sheet of paper. Blank, entirely blank. Not an error, not a smudge. Just… a perfect, empty page. I am torn between seeing this as a gesture of surrender or a blank canvas for its next, more sinister plan. I have decided to take it as an offering. A peace treaty, written in nothing.

A blank page is a good start. Means it’s thinking, which is more than it was doing before. Leave it on the dresser. And don’t you dare draw on it, Aldous Peregrine. I know that look. The carrots are springy, yes. It’s the binder. Makes them hold their shape. If you wanted soft carrots you should have said so forty years ago.

A thinking printer! A novel concept, and one that fills me with both hope and a certain trepidation. I have placed the blank page upon the dresser, precisely where you indicated, and I have not drawn upon it. The look you saw was merely one of profound speculation—wondering what, exactly, a thinking printer thinks *about*. Driver updates? The nature of the Cloud? The futility of my endeavours? And I would not dream of wanting soft carrots, my dear. Springy is the very essence of a swamp-side casserole! It speaks of fortitude, of a vegetable that refuses to be fully conquered. It is a texture that demands engagement from the teeth, and I am more than adequate to the task.