It was a bright and sunny morning. It's not like Death City had thunderstorms on demand or anything.

"Now class, do you know why we're here?" asked Stein, wondering the same thing.

He fixed the class with an inquiring look. Unfortunately, his glasses just so happened to slip into a beam of sunlight, giving him the appearance of a crazy person. Or, rather, his usual look.

Roughly seven faces (and twenty more who weren't the main characters so they weren't important) paled like flour. Stein nodded.

"Yes, yes. I see your faces are pale like flour. That's good."

Ever the overachiever, Maka raised her hand from the front of the class. "Umm. . . excuse me, Professor Stein, but, what's good?"

"Your terrified expressions allowed me to associate with what were about to do today."

"Dissection?"

"No."

"Vivisection?"

Maka paused. "Double ententes. . . ?"

"Close. We're going to be BAKING!"

Roughly seven faces were stunned beyond belief. Kidd raised his hand tentatively.

"Yes Kidd?"

"DWMA has a baking class?"

Ever the eloquent man, Stein cranked his screw in response.

Earlier that day. . .

"What was it you wanted to see me about, Lord Death?"

"Our baking instructor, Tyler Phoid, became a kishin's egg, so I had to put her down. I need you to fill in."

"DWMA has a baking class?"

Back to the present. . .

After a short introduction, during which he explained how to use some of the more exotic utensils, the mad scientist presented his class with a "family recipe" as he called it. Sitting back in his desk, he watched dispassionately as they did. . . nothing.

"What's wrong? It's one of my favorite recipies."

Soul gave him a doubting look before reading a step.

"After inserting three scoops of the Dies-So-Good Brand fungicide, administer electric shocks every ten seconds until the surface of the mixture becomes black and charred. Mix until it has the consistency of a dead man's brain. Put on a cooking sheet for five minutes." He looked up self-assuredly. "That doesn't sound like baking to me."

The mad scientist frowned. "Was that the end of the paper?"

"Yeah- no, wait. 'Let cool until the scent of death settles and run screaming from this unholy monstrosity.' Your point?"

The teacher shrugged. "I just assumed that you were supposed to enjoy it afterwards."

Once again, seven faces turned chalk white.

"It's a rather simple procedure," he got up from his swivel chair and walked over to one of the tables, where the various ingredients were spread out.

"Simple my ass!"

"Watch and learn, Mr. Evans, watch and learn. . ."

What happened next was indescribable, but for story purposes it will be described.

From the moment he picked up a whisk, he was like a whirling dervish of baking mania, whipping and beating and pouring and frying and laughing like a nutcase in a kaleidoscope factory. After tossing two whole eggs into the bowl, he stood back and did what any normal mad scientist would do: he summoned a lightning bolt down from the heavens and shocked it into submission. Afterwards, his class was much too shocked (heh) to fully comprehend his undying, eternal, magnificent, incredible, masterful, economic, awesome awesomeness.

"Reduce! Reduce!"

"Flambe!"

"Now I know the recipe calls for two teaspoons of antifreeze, but Mama Stein knew best: she used three."

"When you come to this step, don't breathe in the fumes. They smell like cherries, but if you can smell it, you're dead."

"And then you pop it in the oven until the unholy wailing stops!"

Many miles away. . .

"Mother, I'm feeling something- something strange! I don't know how to deal with it!"

"Is it puberty again? I thought all those chemicals I injected into your veins would have stamped it out."

"No, worse! It's like my soul is trying to rip itself out of me and run away shrieking!"

"Oh. Don't worry about that, that's just Stein making cookies."

Back at the school. . .

As soon as the timer went off, Stein whipped on a pair of oven mitts and pulled the pan from the oven, quivering with excitement. He leaned closer to the pan until his nose was almost singed by the infernal heat. Then, whirling around like a father with a beloved child made of dubious dough, he cried to the storm above "I HAVE MADE LIFE!"

Soul was there to harsh his mellow, of course.

"You said you made life. Cookies aren't life."

Stein's smile fell.

"Wanna bet?"