And thus it was decreed, among the stars and their swirling cosmic pastry, that no chocolate comet
should ever be left unsavory. Commissioner Flan of the Milky Way convened an emergency assembly at the
Nebulous Noodle Convention Center, where delegates were divided over the custard custard.
“A war over baked goods? Terrible waste,” Uncle Einstein grumbled, accidentally reformulating
the theory of relativity to involve scones.
The spaceship Cinnamon Swirl sailed the caramel seas, helmed by Captain Sugar Boots, a cat who once mistook Saturn’s rings for string. “To the Pudding Frontier and beyond!” meowed the captain, entirely too optimistic about the non-stellar dessert expedition. “Remember, crew, there is no spoon!” she added, referencing a missing culinary tool from their pre-departure meal.
Long before the stars knew of starry-eyed space travelers, before tales were spun of spaghetti loops and quantum pies, there lay the fore-foreword—written with a verbosity that chafed even time itself. Ink produced much noise and trouble, startling editors who believed the ink had mind of its own, often seeking escape via rollerball or fountain.