#Buchteln | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

songbirdsanctuary · 2 months ago

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Buchteln

So... 88 votes, and not a single 'no'. I guess you wanna see a fic where Scar bakes.

So this one he makes one off my personal favorites, Buchteln filled with apricot.

Word count: 5,359

Scar wandered aimlessly around his kitchen, his tail flicking with each step as he mulled over what to make. The room was warm and cozy, the soft glow from the late afternoon sun casting a golden hue across the counters, but Scar’s mind wasn’t on the light—it was on what to bake. He wanted to make something good, but for once, he wasn’t sure what.

His eyes drifted over the shelves of ingredients as he ran a hand over his chin, deep in thought. Scar didn’t bake for himself often; in truth, he rarely ate the fruits of his labor. No, his joy came from baking for others, the way they smiled when they took their first bite, how their eyes lit up as the flavors danced on their tongues. The satisfaction of bringing a little bit of happiness to his friends was what drove him into the kitchen time and time again.

He stopped for a moment and rested his hands on the cool marble countertop. Who should he bake for this time? He tilted his head, running through his list of friends. Impulse? No, he had just brought him a fresh apple pie last week, and Scar doubted Impulse would be ready for another sweet treat so soon. His tail swayed behind him as he paced a little, considering his options. What about Xisuma? Scar smiled at the thought of the admin, remembering how pleased X had been with the chorus fruit chocolate cake he’d brought by a few days ago. Another gift so soon might be a bit over the top.

Scar hummed softly to himself, then paused. Pearl. He hadn’t baked anything for Pearl in a while. A broad grin spread across his face as the decision settled in his mind. Yes, Pearl would appreciate something special. She always had a way of making him feel like his efforts were worthwhile, even if she never demanded anything.

“Alright,” Scar muttered to himself, already feeling more focused now that he had a recipient in mind. “Pearl it is.”

But now came the question: What to make? He tapped his fingers against the counter, thinking hard. A cake? No, too similar to what he had already done for Xisuma. Something light, sweet, but not overwhelming. Maybe a pastry of some kind, something Pearl could nibble on during one of her long adventures.

After a few minutes of deliberation, inspiration struck. Buchteln. Yes, that would be perfect! Light, pillowy rolls filled with something sweet—he had apricots growing in the garden that would make an ideal filling. It was a comforting dessert, a treat that would warm you up on the inside but wasn’t too heavy.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Scar got to work. He walked over to his pantry, pulling out a large bowl from one of the lower shelves. He hummed softly as he began to gather the ingredients. For the dough, he would need flour, eggs, sugar, butter, milk, yeast, salt, and vanilla extract.

One by one, Scar pulled the bags of flour and sugar from the cabinet, setting them gently on the counter. Next came the yeast—he checked the packet to make sure it was still fresh—before reaching for the little bottle of vanilla extract from a nearby shelf. His hands worked with a practiced rhythm, each motion deliberate but easy.

Scar’s gaze flicked to the window as he remembered the eggs. He grinned and made his way outside, his boots crunching softly against the gravel path that led to his small chicken coop. The chickens clucked softly in greeting as Scar approached. He reached into the coop, carefully gathering two warm, brown eggs in his hands, giving a soft chuckle as one of the hens nudged his arm as if in approval. “Thanks, girls,” Scar said, giving them a fond smile before making his way back inside.

Once he returned to the kitchen, Scar placed the eggs beside the other ingredients, pausing for a moment to survey everything laid out before him. There was something immensely satisfying about this part of baking—the preparation, the anticipation of creating something from nothing more than a handful of simple ingredients. It reminded him of building, how each block placed down eventually became something greater than the sum of its parts. But instead of bricks and wood, he had flour and sugar, butter and milk.

He rolled up his sleeves and got ready to begin, his thoughts already drifting to Pearl and how surprised she’d be when he showed up with a basket of fresh, warm Buchteln. The thought made him smile as he reached for the flour and began measuring out the first cup.

Scar reached into one of the lower cabinets, pulling out a sturdy pan, his fingers grazing the cool metal as he set it down with a soft clink onto the stove. The kitchen was filled with a warm glow, and the hum of activity was soothing to him. Cooking and baking always gave him a sense of purpose. He carefully measured out 1/3 cup of butter, watching the golden chunks fall into the pan, their soft edges already beginning to melt. Turning the heat on low, Scar kept a close eye on it, occasionally swirling the pan to ensure the butter melted evenly, a habit he had picked up after a few too many incidents of butter browning unintentionally.

As the butter slowly liquefied, its smooth golden surface reflecting the light above, Scar inhaled deeply, letting the rich, creamy scent fill the kitchen. When the last of the butter melted into a warm pool, he turned off the heat, carefully tilting the pan and watching the butter glide to one side. He set it aside to cool slightly, knowing that patience was key in baking—too hot, and the butter would scramble the eggs.

While the butter rested, Scar moved over to the counter, reaching for his large mixing bowl. He loved this particular bowl—it was wide and deep, perfect for stirring ingredients without making a mess. Grabbing a wooden spoon, he set to work. First, the flour. He scooped it with precision, leveling off each cup before letting it fall with a soft thud into the bowl. Once the flour was in, he added the sugar—a delicate cascade of white powder—and then, the yeast, sprinkling it over the top like magic dust.

The mixture in the bowl looked like an unassuming pile of dry ingredients, but Scar knew that soon it would transform into something entirely different. With a few gentle swipes of the spoon, he mixed the flour, yeast, and sugar together, watching as they combined into a pale, soft mixture. The flour was light and powdery, swirling slightly in the air with each movement, and Scar couldn’t help but smile at the sight. There was something calming about working with ingredients so simple, yet so integral.

He stopped for a moment, holding the spoon mid-stir, and then carefully made a well in the center of the dry ingredients, just like he had done countless times before. The flour and sugar slid to the edges of the bowl, forming a soft, pale crater in the middle. Scar stepped back for a moment, admiring his work—it almost looked like a little nest, waiting to be filled.

Next came the wet ingredients. Scar moved to grab another bowl, this one slightly smaller but still spacious enough to handle what he needed. He picked up the measuring cup, carefully pouring in the warm milk—just the right temperature, not too hot to kill the yeast but warm enough to activate it. He glanced over at the butter, now cooled to the perfect temperature, and poured it into the bowl with the milk. The two liquids swirled together, the butter leaving golden streaks as it mingled with the creamy milk.

Then came the eggs. Scar cracked them against the rim of the bowl, one at a time, watching as the bright yolks slipped down into the liquid below, their rich yellow contrasting with the pale milk and butter. He whisked them gently, the sound of the whisk rhythmic and soft, until everything was well combined, smooth and slightly frothy. The salt came next, just a pinch to balance out the sweetness, and finally, the vanilla extract. He loved the smell of vanilla—it reminded him of warmth and comfort, like curling up with a soft blanket on a cold day. As he added a teaspoon, the scent blossomed in the air, bringing a smile to his face.

Satisfied with his mixture, Scar moved back to the large bowl with the flour, yeast, and sugar. He picked up the smaller bowl, carefully pouring the wet ingredients into the well he had made earlier. The liquid mixture slid into the crater, pooling at the bottom before slowly spreading outwards, soaking into the flour from the edges.

Scar set the bowl down and grabbed the wooden spoon once more. He began stirring slowly, drawing the flour from the edges of the well into the wet center. His movements were gentle but deliberate, folding the ingredients together with care. The dough began to form, thick and sticky at first, but gradually becoming smoother with each turn of the spoon. The process was almost meditative—Scar lost himself in the rhythm, in the soft scrape of the spoon against the bowl and the feeling of the dough coming together beneath his hands.

He knew that soon it would be time to knead the dough by hand, but for now, he simply enjoyed the quiet act of mixing, knowing that each step brought him closer to creating something special for Pearl.

Scar continued to stir the mixture, watching as the flour gradually absorbed the liquid ingredients, transforming into a sticky dough that clung to the sides of the bowl. As the spoon became less effective, Scar set it aside and dusted his hands with a bit of flour, feeling the familiar, gritty sensation against his skin. He reached into the bowl, his fingers sinking into the soft, yielding dough, and began working it with his hands. The dough was warm and pliable, sticking to his fingers slightly as he began folding and pressing it together.

He transferred the dough onto a clean, lightly floured surface, dusting the top with just enough flour to keep it from sticking too much. Scar took a deep breath, letting himself sink into the familiar rhythm of kneading. His hands pushed the dough forward, stretching it out, then folding it back on itself with a firm but gentle touch. The repetitive motion was soothing, almost hypnotic, as he worked the dough into something soft, supple, and smooth. Every fold and press of his hands brought the dough closer to that perfect texture he knew so well.

As he kneaded, Scar’s mind wandered, thoughts of Pearl and her reaction drifting through his head. He smiled to himself, imagining her wide grin when she took her first bite. Kneading was always the part of baking that made him feel the most connected to the process—it was personal, his hands guiding the ingredients from their raw form into something full of potential. Each press of his palms was like building the foundation of a structure, brick by brick, until everything was just right.

The dough started to transform under his hands, growing firmer, smoother, and more elastic with each passing minute. He could feel it gaining strength, the gluten developing and binding the ingredients together in a soft, stretchy web. His arms moved in steady, practiced motions, pushing the dough down, turning it over, stretching it again. He occasionally dusted the surface with more flour, just enough to keep things moving smoothly but never too much to dry it out.

Eight minutes passed, then ten, and the dough was ready. It felt springy and smooth beneath his fingers, elastic and responsive to his touch. Scar pressed a finger into it lightly, watching it bounce back. Perfect.

With a satisfied hum, Scar lifted the dough and placed it back into the large bowl, tucking it into a neat ball. He grabbed a clean kitchen towel from a nearby hook, soft and warm, and carefully draped it over the bowl. The dough was now ready to rise, and Scar knew the next step was to wait—a lesson in patience that baking never failed to teach.

He carried the bowl over to a cozy spot near the window, where the afternoon sun streamed through the glass, casting a gentle warmth across the counter. It was the perfect place for the dough to rise, nestled in the sun’s embrace. Scar glanced at the clock and smiled to himself; it would take about an hour or two for the dough to double in size, enough time for him to relax a little before continuing.

With the dough resting, Scar took a moment to stand back and admire his work. The kitchen smelled faintly of vanilla and yeast, with the promise of freshly baked bread hanging in the air. He felt a quiet sense of accomplishment, knowing that soon enough, the dough would be ready for the next step, inching closer to becoming the delicious Buchteln he had envisioned for Pearl. Now all he had to do was wait, letting the magic of yeast and time do its work, slowly transforming the dough into something light and airy.

As he wiped the flour from his hands and leaned back against the counter, Scar glanced out the window, watching the golden rays of the sun inch lower across the sky. It was a peaceful moment, the calm before the final flurry of activity that would bring his creation to life.

As the dough rose quietly in the kitchen, Scar decided to stretch his legs and take a short walk outside. His backyard was a peaceful retreat, filled with life and vibrant energy. The gentle breeze rustled through the leaves of his small garden, and the sun dappled the ground with patches of light. His boots crunched softly against the earth as he approached his favorite tree—a lone apricot tree that stood tall and proud at the far end of his yard.

Scar had always loved this tree. It had been one of the first he planted when he moved in, and over the years, it had become a steadfast companion, offering shade in the summer and fruit in the late spring. He could see the small buds of future apricots beginning to swell, but they were still green, not yet ready for picking. As he came closer, his heart sank a little—none of the fruit seemed ready to harvest. But Scar wasn’t too worried; being part tree elf had its perks.

Gently, Scar rested a hand against the rough bark of the trunk, feeling the connection between them spark to life. He could sense the tree's slow, steady heartbeat beneath his fingertips. The leaves rustled softly above him as though the tree was waking up from a lazy nap.

“Hey, Apri,” Scar said softly, his voice warm with affection. He loved giving nicknames to his plants—he found it made them more personable, more like friends. And they never seemed to mind; in fact, they responded to it, even if trees were a little slower than other plants to show it.

The tree hummed in response, its voice deep and slow, as trees often spoke. It was a sound more felt than heard, a vibration that echoed through the earth and up through the soles of Scar’s feet. “Mmm... Scar... What brings you here today?”

Scar smiled, patting the bark affectionately. “Could I have a few fruits today?” He asked, his tone polite and respectful. He always made sure to ask nicely; trees appreciated kindness, and he believed in giving back to the land that provided for him.

“Mmm?” The tree took its time to respond, its leaves swaying lazily in the breeze. “How many do you need?”

Scar looked up at the branches overhead, thinking for a moment. He didn’t need too many—just enough for his Buchteln, enough to make Pearl smile when she took her first bite. “Three. If you please?” Scar asked, his voice soft.

There was a pause as the tree considered his request. It hummed again, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated through the trunk. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, one of the branches began to lower toward Scar, inching its way down like a living thing. Scar watched in quiet wonder as the tree responded to his magic, the buds on the branch swelling before his eyes.

As the branch lowered to his height, Scar noticed the apricots beginning to grow right before him. Their greenish-yellow hue slowly deepened into a rich, warm orange, the fruits swelling and ripening in mere moments. It never ceased to amaze him how nature could be so generous with just a little nudge from his magic.

Once the apricots had ripened fully, their skins soft and fragrant, Scar carefully plucked them from the branch one by one. He handled them with great care, their slightly fuzzy skins cool and smooth against his hands. “Thank you, Apri,” Scar said softly, giving the tree another gentle pat on the trunk as he stood back up.

The tree hummed once more, its branches swaying gently in a breeze that seemed to answer him. “Hmm... Anytime, Scar...”

With the apricots cradled in his hands, Scar made his way back to the kitchen, the scent of the ripe fruit filling the air as he walked. He set the apricots down on the counter and grabbed a small knife from the drawer. One by one, he sliced each apricot in half, twisting the two halves apart to reveal the small pits inside. He discarded the pits, then gently crushed the apricot flesh with a fork until it began to break down into a thick, pulpy jam.

Scar decided not to add any sugar; he loved the natural sweetness of freshly picked fruit, and he knew Pearl appreciated the authentic taste of the ingredients. The apricots, still warm from the sun and the magic of the tree, softened beautifully, releasing their juices as Scar worked them into a rustic, simple filling.

He smiled as he watched the apricot jam come together, thinking about how it would pair perfectly with the soft, pillowy dough now rising in the bowl. Everything was coming together nicely—just a little more time and care, and the Buchteln would be ready to fill with this fresh, sun-kissed fruit.

And with the dough rising steadily behind him, Scar felt a sense of calm satisfaction wash over him, knowing that every element of this bake—from the dough to the apricots themselves—was made with care, attention, and a little bit of magic.

After about two hours, Scar returned to the kitchen. The dough, now soft and swollen, had doubled in size, filling the bowl with its light, pillowy texture. He grinned, pleased with how beautifully it had risen. This was the moment Scar always looked forward to—the transformation from mere ingredients into something alive and full of potential.

He approached the bowl and gently placed his hand on the surface of the dough. It felt warm and soft, like a plush cloud, but he knew it was time to move on to the next step. With a decisive motion, Scar punched down the dough, his fist sinking into it as the air rushed out in a satisfying whoosh. The dough deflated instantly, its puffiness collapsing under the pressure. Scar chuckled quietly to himself; there was something deeply gratifying about that moment, a sense of control and power in shaping the dough as he pleased.

He dusted his counter with flour, watching the fine white powder fall like snow onto the surface. Carefully, he turned the dough out of the bowl, placing it on the counter with a soft thud. It spread slightly, but still held its shape, elastic and smooth beneath his touch. He took a deep breath and began the process of dividing the dough into smaller portions.

With a bench scraper in hand, Scar divided the dough evenly into twelve pieces. He worked methodically, cutting and weighing each piece to ensure they were all roughly the same size. Scar had always liked precision in baking; it was a delicate balance of art and science, and getting the proportions just right always made him feel more connected to the process.

Each piece of dough was rolled into a ball, the smooth surface stretching and glistening faintly in the light. Scar placed the small dough balls in a neat row on the counter, his fingers moving with practiced ease as he prepared for the next step. He pressed each ball flat, shaping them into small circles with his hands. The dough was supple and warm, slightly tacky to the touch, but it yielded easily beneath his fingers as he shaped it.

Once he had twelve flat circles of dough in front of him, Scar retrieved the apricot jam he had made earlier. It had thickened nicely while he worked on the dough, still fragrant and vibrant with the sweet, tangy scent of fresh apricots. He smiled to himself, satisfied with the filling he had created—it would be the perfect complement to the soft, fluffy dough.

Scar spooned a small amount of the chunky apricot jam into the center of each circle of dough, careful not to overfill them. The bright orange filling sat like a small jewel in the middle of each dough round, glistening in the light. He worked quickly but carefully, knowing that too much filling could cause the dough to break or leak during baking.

Once all the dough circles were filled, Scar began to carefully pinch the edges of each circle together, drawing the dough up and over the apricot jam. He made sure to seal the edges tightly, pressing the dough firmly together to trap the sweet filling inside. His fingers moved deftly, pinching and twisting the dough until each piece was securely sealed, the jam nestled safely in the center.

Scar placed each dough ball seam-side down in a buttered baking dish, arranging them snugly together so they would bake into a warm, golden mass of sweet, filled buns. The buttered dish glistened softly, its sides slick with melted butter that would help the dough bake to a beautiful golden brown. As he placed the last dough ball into the dish, Scar stepped back for a moment to admire his work. The balls of dough fit snugly together, their surfaces smooth and taut, with just a hint of the soft jam hidden beneath.

Scar brushed the tops of the dough balls with a little melted butter, ensuring they would bake to a beautiful golden color. He could already imagine the scent of warm, sweet bread filling the kitchen, the soft, pillowy Buchteln fresh out of the oven. The apricot jam, still slightly chunky, would melt into the dough, creating pockets of sweet, fruity goodness in every bite.

Satisfied with his work, Scar set the baking dish aside, ready for the final stage of baking. The hard part was done; now all that was left was to wait and let the magic of the oven do its work, transforming these simple dough balls into something special for Pearl. As he wiped his hands clean, Scar felt a warm sense of pride. He could already picture the look on Pearl’s face when she took her first bite, the sweetness of the apricots mingling with the soft dough.

After about half an hour, Scar began to notice the sweet, comforting aroma of freshly baked bread filling his kitchen. It was rich and warm, with just a hint of fruity sweetness from the apricots. He peered through the oven window, and his heart fluttered with excitement—the Buchteln had risen beautifully, their tops a perfect golden brown, shimmering slightly with the buttery sheen he'd brushed on them.

Satisfied, Scar grabbed his oven mitts and carefully opened the oven door, feeling the rush of warm air escape. He gently slid the baking dish out of the oven, the weight of it solid in his hands. The Buchteln looked perfect—plump, golden buns nestled snugly together, slightly puffed up from the heat of the oven. Each one held a secret pocket of apricot jam, their surfaces smooth and shiny, promising soft, airy bites filled with sweetness.

With practiced precision, Scar carefully removed the buns from the pan, one by one, setting them on a cooling rack to let the steam escape. He handled each one delicately, feeling their warmth through the thick mitts, making sure not to disturb the delicate balance of the dough and filling. Each Buchteln was slightly firm on the outside, but he could feel the softness underneath, the dough springing back with a slight press of his finger.

After letting them cool for a few minutes, Scar set the warm, golden buns on a plate. Their rich scent still lingered in the air, filling the kitchen with that unmistakable comforting smell of home-baked goods. He stepped back for a moment to admire his work—there was something deeply satisfying about seeing the fruits of his labor sitting there, waiting to be enjoyed. The light in the kitchen caught the golden tops of the Buchteln, making them glow with an inviting warmth.

He wasn’t done yet, though. Reaching for the powdered sugar, Scar carefully dusted each Buchteln with a fine layer of white sweetness. He held the sieve high, letting the sugar rain down in delicate, airy puffs, covering the tops of the buns like freshly fallen snow. It added the perfect finishing touch, a light sweetness that would complement the apricot filling without overpowering it.

Scar smiled as he watched the powdered sugar settle, a soft dusting that contrasted beautifully with the golden-brown tops of the Buchteln. They looked so inviting, so perfectly made, that for a moment he wondered if he should keep one for himself—but no, these were for Pearl, and the thought of sharing them made him even happier.

Once the dusting of sugar was complete, Scar carefully transferred the Buchteln into a wooden container. The container had been one of his favorites for years, a beautifully crafted box with a smooth finish and intricate carvings along the edges. He liked to think it added a personal touch, something that made the gift even more special. He gently nestled the Buchteln inside, making sure they were securely placed so they wouldn’t shift around on the journey. As he placed the final bun inside, he marveled at how snugly they fit, almost as though the container had been made just for them.

Scar placed the lid on the container, the soft wooden click sealing the Buchteln inside. For a moment, he stood still, the container in his hands, feeling the warmth of the freshly baked buns radiating through the wood. There was a sense of anticipation building within him—he couldn’t wait to see Pearl’s reaction when she opened the box.

With everything ready, Scar made his way out of the kitchen and toward the door, the wooden container tucked securely under his arm. The afternoon sun was still bright in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over the landscape as Scar began the walk to Pearl’s base. The container felt solid and reassuring in his hands, each step bringing him closer to the moment he would share his baking with her.

As he walked, Scar couldn’t help but smile. He loved these small acts of kindness, baking something from scratch and then delivering it to a friend. There was something magical in it, a quiet, simple joy that came from creating something with care and then offering it to someone else, knowing that they would appreciate the effort, the thoughtfulness, and, most of all, the taste of something made just for them.

The path to Pearl’s base was familiar, winding through a beautiful landscape of rolling hills and colorful flowers. Scar hummed a little tune to himself as he walked, the container held carefully in his hands, his heart light with anticipation. He imagined Pearl’s face lighting up when she opened the lid, the surprise and delight when she saw the beautifully dusted Buchteln waiting for her inside. That thought alone made the entire process worth it.

By the time he reached Pearl’s base, the sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the ground. Scar stood at the entrance for a moment, adjusting the container in his hands, a smile on his lips as he knocked gently on the door. He couldn’t wait to share the fruits of his labor with his friend, knowing that the warmth and sweetness of the Buchteln would brighten her day as much as the process of making them had brightened his.

Pearl noticed Scar approaching from a distance, the late afternoon sun casting his familiar silhouette against the warm golden sky. With a gentle flutter of her moth wings, she took to the air, her soft, silken wings catching the breeze as she glided gracefully down toward him. The vibrant colors of her wings shimmered in the fading sunlight, giving her an almost ethereal glow as she descended. As she landed softly a few feet away from him, her wings folded neatly behind her back, their edges still shimmering as they tucked in close to her body.

"Scar!" Pearl greeted him with a bright smile, her voice full of warmth and joy. She practically bounced on her feet as she stepped closer, excitement radiating from her. Her eyes gleamed with curiosity—she always loved when Scar visited, knowing he often came bearing something special.

Scar smiled back at her, his heart lifting at the sight of her bright, cheerful energy. Seeing her always made him feel lighter, and her enthusiasm was contagious. He held the wooden container carefully in his hands, the same one that now held the sweet treats he’d spent the afternoon making just for her. He could feel the warmth of the Buchteln still lingering within the wood, a promise of the comforting, sugary goodness inside.

"Hello, Pearl," Scar said softly, his voice filled with affection. He took a step forward and presented the container to her, his tail flicking happily behind him. The weight of the box was light in his hands, but it carried with it the thought and care he’d put into every step of the baking process.

“I brought something for you,” he said, his smile widening as he held the container out toward her. There was a note of pride in his voice, but also a gentle modesty—Scar never baked for praise or recognition, only for the joy of sharing what he made with the people he cared about.

Pearl’s eyes lit up with curiosity as she looked at the wooden box. Her hands reached out, delicate and eager, as she gently took the container from him. For a moment, she held it in her hands, feeling the weight and warmth of the contents inside, already guessing what sort of delicious treat Scar had prepared for her this time. She smiled softly, glancing back up at him with gratitude.

"Aw, Scar," she said, her voice touched with affection. “You didn’t have to, but I’m so glad you did. What’s inside?”

Scar grinned, leaning in a little closer as if to share a secret. “Something special,” he said with a wink. “Freshly baked Buchteln, filled with apricots I picked just for you.”

Pearl’s expression turned to one of delighted surprise. She loved Scar’s baking, but the thought that he had gone out of his way to pick fresh apricots just for this recipe made it all the more meaningful. She couldn’t wait to open the container and see the sweet, golden buns for herself, to breathe in the scent of fresh pastry and fruit.

Her wings fluttered slightly in excitement, the soft movement betraying her eagerness. "You always know just what I like," she said with a laugh, holding the container close to her as if it were a treasure.

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