If anyone had seen him at that moment, he would have seriously considered killing them just so there was no chance of this getting out. The Opera Ghost was in his kitchen. . .making cookies. The fact was beyond his comprehension, and he was beginning to regret it. He gritted his teeth as he tried to decipher the recipe. "Just remember, its for Christine." he told himself. Then looking at the next item on the list he groaned. He had written down the ingredients and procured them with little problem. It was these units of measurement he was having a problem with. It was like they were in another language, at least most of them. He understood tsp. . .but that was more or less where his knowledge stopped, and he did not have a measuring cup nor a set of measuring spoons.
However, he was a genius and he would figure this out. He decided on gingerbread, simply because they didn't sound tooth-rotting as most of the others did, and he guessed he would have to stomach some of these. He had been remarkably clean, and his clothing and the surfaces were all as spotless as they began, minus a drop of molasses that had dripped from the bowl. Finally, though, he had worked it out well enough.
He went to retrieve his angel from her room, only a few seconds late, and he would tell when she first smelled the cookies because she made no motion to hide the fact that she smelled something, and then broke into a grin. "Do I smell. . ."
"Gingerbread." he confirmed, and she immediately gave him a hug.
"Oh, thank you! Where did you get them?"
"I made them, actually."
"Really? Well then I look forward to them even more!" she said, and when they tried them – he found that much like peppermint, these were not so bad. He pretended he didn't see her sneak a third before making her hold off until later. He was not going thorough that process again.