"I didn't know it would do that," she says for probably the hundredth time, and raises one hand in front of her eyes: sticky, ew.
Elsa's lips tighten fractionally, she's still gripping the whisk and clutching the now empty mixing bowl, which drips batter onto the floor in disconsolate plops.
"You said you knew how to do this," she says, lifting the bowl up and giving it a little shake.
"I did. I do. You just follow the recipe…" A particularly large glob chooses that moment to fall from the ceiling; it lands heavily in Elsa's cream and silver hair, a pinkish stain spreading down over her forehead and onto her nose.
Anna winces.
Elsa raises her eyes to the heavens, and says, plaintively, and to no one in particular, "I am a Queen." There's a beat, then she levels her gaze at Anna.
When Elsa looks at her like that it's almost scary; it's eerily like the look their mother used to get whenever she caught them (okay, Anna) elbows deep in something she wasn't supposed to be near. (Except now, in Elsa's case, she has raspberry sludge in her eyebrows and it kinda ruins the effect.)
"Give me that," she says, and grabs the cookbook – heavy, pages transparent from years of being handled by butter greased fingers and oil, dusted in flour, practically a baked good itself – out of Anna's hands, bobbles it for a second, then flips back to the appropriate page.
"Okay, so, eggs, flour, sugar, salt, beet juice, berries, baking soda, vinegar – "
"Wait, what?"
Anna looks at Elsa who looks at the cookbook.
She lifts the page, rubs the paper between her fingers, and sighs deeply when two leaves separate, falling gently back into place.
"Soooo what were we making?"
"Cake…pickles."
"This might be harder than I expected."