Parmesan Cheese Ice Cream Made with Magical Tools

"Kid. What are you thinking so hard about?"

"Nothing. I was just wondering if the entrance moves around when you leave..."

At those words, Iona burst into a belly laugh that made his beard quiver.

"Hahaha! If it did, the people who organize this warehouse—and this old back that holds up my pouch of knowledge—would have snapped long ago. Don't you worry!"

So the whole "Godwin's knowledge pouch" thing started with this guy.

Having stumbled onto that unexpected fact, Karem followed Iona's assurance and stepped back out through the reappearing arched doorway the way he had come ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in.

On the return trip to the Mage's Tower, Karem drew the kitchen knife—not a dagger—from the sheath he had been given as a freebie and gave it a few experimental flourishes through the air.

The long, right-triangular blade that insisted it was a kitchen knife looked, in the hands of his eleven-year-old body, like an adult gripping a shortsword. Yet the weight was lighter than any kitchen knife; lighter still than that.

Karem, exaggerating only a little, wondered if this was what a Jedi knight's lightsaber felt like—weightless. And with a blade keener than a razor, it was going to take a fair while to get used to.

Even after Iona had shown him Winter's Lie in the treasury, Karem had still been treated to a feast of enticing magical tools: a magic barrel that accelerated the time of its contents a hundredfold, a pure-silver bowl that neutralized every poison, a set of cooking implements that prepped ingredients exactly as the user demanded, a bronze chest that duplicated stored food once a week, and more.

Even so, Karem had chosen Winter's Lie and never once regretted it.

Well... the truth was he felt a little queasy about how hastily he had chosen.

That oak barrel had looked pretty tempting, though.

Watching him carefully, Catherine smiled with quiet amusement.

"Kid. Is it that good?"

"The balance of weight is—huh? Yes?"

"Just look at you, so focused, swinging it around through empty air."

Like any other kid his age who just got a present. The precocious little thing.

By now Karem could read his employer's meaning from her eyes alone. He stopped mid-flourish and raised his voice.

"Yes! It's great! Of course it is! It's a magical cooking tool! Even if it looks more like it was made for slicing people than carrots!"

Better to brazen it out than tell a pointless lie.

Of course Mary's and Catherine's gazes were exactly the same ones he had been giving the two of them earlier, but so what? A man, whether as a boy or grown, was a creature who, left alone, would invent imaginary scenarios and swing imaginary weapons through the air. After reincarnation, life had been too harsh for that luxury—but now that he had a little breathing room and the imaginary weapon had become real, who cared about a few stares?

"And it can freeze whatever it cuts while also setting it on fire. How am I supposed to resist that? Think of how many things I can do with this!"

"I have no complaints."

"Neither do I."

Karem twisted the knife's handle left and right. From the hairline crack on the left poured pure white cold; from the flame engraving on the right, red heat.

"A dual-attribute weapon! I'm a man, for crying out loud—how am I supposed to hold back?!"

"A dual-attribute weapon. Even if the two opposing attributes only activate on command, sticking them together is impressive... but didn't you say that was a kitchen knife?"

"Let's not quibble over the details!"

"So what do you plan to do with it? Chop ingredients? The power will freeze them or burn them to ash."

"I overheard that if you swing it gently the power drops."

"That sounds like saying an arrow hurts less if it hits you gently."

In other words: pure nonsense. Karem agreed. When he first heard it he had thought exactly the same thing.

"There's also supposed to be other magic sealed in it that even Iona-nim doesn't know about."

"I heard that too. Magical tools buried in the vaults of old noble houses often have hidden effects..."

Iona had no reason to lie. Catherine seemed to share the thought; she eyed the dagger with fresh interest.

"Anyway, you're saying it has power-regulation magic..."

"Something along those lines, probably."

"Kid. Mind lending it to me for a bit?"

At that, Karem glanced at the sky. The sun, already past noon and slanting, was drawing an orange curtain down across the heavens.

Still far too early for dinner to be ready in the great hall. Too late to head back to the tower for a snack, either. They had eaten lunch—more brunch, really—early, then spent the rest of the day in the treasury. Nothing would be prepared. A salad or sandwich might do, but serving that as a snack would get the same reaction from both Catherine and Mary.

Ordinarily, that is.

Karem lifted the kitchen knife that exhaled dry-ice cold—or colder still.

"After I try making just one thing with this. We still need a snack, don't we?"

"...Planning to make sorbet?"

A frozen dessert of sweet fruit juice or wine mixed with additives. Also called sherbet. A tiny thread of expectation colored Catherine's voice. With a cold as harsh as Iceland's winter pouring from the blade, there were only a few snacks she knew that could use it.

"No. Ice cream."

"...Karem Hubae. Freezing cream? Isn't that a waste?"

"No. I've heard they freeze milk or cream in Adobis and eat it like sorbet. Are you planning to freeze whipped cream?"

"Oh, that doesn't sound bad. But this time I'm making it a different way."

Ice cream's distant ancestors may have existed for thousands of years, but the form modern people know began in the Tang Dynasty and crossed into Europe to become the ice cream we recognize. Europa, however, had never received that particular transmission. What passed for frozen desserts here were only sorbets, hard ices, or things closer to milk shaved ice.

Karem filled a copper pot with cream, melted butter, egg yolks, and syrup, then whisked furiously while pouring every ounce of attention into the pot—more precisely, into the fire beneath it. Too high and the mixture would turn into creamy scrambled eggs. Too low and it would remain nothing more than warm cream and companions.

Catherine still looked lost; Mary the same. Regardless, the boy kept the heat just low enough that the yolks never scrambled, whisking until he had a liquid custard. When he dumped in a mountain of Parma cheese he had grated on a grater, their expressions turned peculiar—then they nodded. Desserts with cheese in them, like cakes or tarts, were hardly unheard of.

Once every shred of cheese had melted, Karem strained the mixture through a ladle and held the still-hot pot out to Mary.

"Here. Take this."

"Pardon?"

He also handed her the dagger, Winter's Lie, handle turned so it poured cold from the other hand.

"And this."

"What am I supposed to do with these?"

"Stir at a steady rhythm and speed until I say stop. Like this."

Karem demonstrated with an imaginary pot and knife. Mary tilted her head but began stirring the pot with the kitchen knife that exhaled dry-ice—or worse—cold.

In the modern world, once you had the base cream ready, making ice cream was simple: dump it into an ice-cream maker, flip the switch, and let civilization do the rest. Science victory, modern life forever. But this was the continent of Europa, far removed from modernity. No ice-cream maker, nothing even similar. Normally you would nest a bowl of base in a larger bowl of ice, sprinkle salt, and sweat through endless stirring until it became ice cream—or simply wait for winter.

"Hmm? I'm starting to feel some resistance."

"Let me see. Hmm? It's gained a bit of density—no, viscosity? Something like that."

"Looks like it's coming along properly. Keep stirring hard."

But Karem had the all-purpose house fairy Mary at his side. The kind of fairy who gladly volunteered for any grueling, boring, exhausting chore.

As the layer of frozen mixture on the magical knife thickened, the contents of the pot took on a slushy texture, then became less stirring and more like kneading dough with a blade. The ice cream finished faster than Karem had expected. No extra time in a freezer needed.

"This is as good as done. No—it is done."

"If you froze whipped cream, I imagine it would feel something like this."

"Well, if you actually froze whipped cream it would just turn into ridiculously light ice."

Karem took the pot from Mary and, with two spoons ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠he had prepared, scooped ice cream and shaped it into balls. The spheres, first no bigger than a baby's fist, grew as he added more scoops until they reached the size of baseballs.

While the two women, who had known only sorbets and ice candies as frozen treats, puffed up with curiosity, the boy presented a bowl of ice cream and a spoon to his employer.

"Well? No point talking. Taste it yourself."

"Ha. I truly can't imagine what this texture will be like. Or should I say mouthfeel?"

Mary immediately took a spoon and lifted a portion of the ice cream—pale yellow, like a snowfield carved by wind and shaped into a sphere. The contradictory sensation of firm yet soft made her flinch, but she recovered and carried the spoon to Catherine's mouth.

".....Huh?"

Confusion, question mark, exclamation mark. For less than a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠second Catherine was thrown by the sheer volume of a brand-new sensation. Then she steadied herself and rolled the cold dessert across her tongue.

A gentle sweetness, and the lingering nutty savor unique to Parma cheese that clung to the tongue for a long time. Even though butter had been melted into the cream, the ice-cold temperature kept any greasiness at bay; instead it heightened the umami while completely masking the cheese's characteristic bitterness.

Butter, cream, cheese, syrup—only the best of each, gathered into an unreasonable pinnacle. An unfair harmony of flavors that made Catherine's eyes fly open without her noticing.

The ice cream in her mouth was already gone. Not a trace of the cheese's odd smell or bitterness remained. Only the rich savor of cheese and cream clung thickly to her tongue, refusing to let go.

"Th-this is something completely different from sorbet."

"The density is different from the start compared to fruit juice or wine."

"Of course. With cream and even butter in it, the concentration has to be different. Still..."

Catherine bit into more ice cream and turned her gaze. Karem followed it to Mary, whose entire body was trembling so hard the spoon in her hand shook.

Yeah. I figured she'd be like that.

The main ingredients of the ice cream made from Parma cheese—identical in taste to Parmesan—were cream, butter, egg, syrup, and cheese. For a house fairy who went mad for milk products, restraining herself this long in the face of three dairy items in a row was impressive.

Catherine finished melting the ice cream in her mouth, then patted the arm of Mary, who was shaking all over like someone in the grip of an addictive seizure.

"You need to eat some first."

"N-no I couldn't possibly! Y-you haven't even eaten yet—"

"Just watching you is making me nervous. Eat already!"

"Well... if you put it that way, all right."

Yeah. I saw this coming too.

Karem held out a pre-shaped ball of ice cream in a bowl.

"Then I'll dig in. Hap."

"Wh-what."

Mary lifted the bowl and swallowed the fist-sized scoop of ice cream whole.

"Uh, Mary. You're going to regret that."

"Eh? Wha' are you talkin' abou'—oof."

And exactly the scene Karem had imagined unfolded before his eyes.

The judgment of ice that falls when you carelessly eat too much of something as cold as ice cream or its kin. Cold spiderwebbed out from the frontal lobe, squeezing the entire brain in waves of nightmare pressure.

Mary writhed under a pain she had never once experienced in her life—or her fairy life.

"O-oooohhh! Ugh-k! O-oooooh?!"

She made unearthly noises and thrashed in place. Every instinct screamed to collapse and roll around, yet some final shred of dignity kept her upright, enduring the headache and eye-ache in full.

Karem spoke the words that rose unbidden from his heart.

"Receive the judgment of winter."

"Hmm. People often get like that after cold food. Now I'm curious."

"That sounds like you're saying you never get brain freeze from cold food, Atanitas-nim."

"Exactly. Want me to show you?"

"Then hand me a big one. Let's see..."

Catherine took the generous sphere of ice cream Karem offered with open curiosity and stuffed the whole thing into her mouth. Cheeks puffed out like a squirrel or hamster about to binge, she smiled blissfully at the explosion of flavor. Karem found himself smiling softly at the adorable sight.

Just then the kitchen door opened.

A blond crown of hair and long ears drooping downward. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠A shabby cloak that looked ready for the trash. Narke scratched his head as he stepped in.

"Eh, ehehe. Excuse me. Is Mary inside—ah, Karem? By any chance—"

"O-oooooh! Hooooaaaahhh!!!"

"Uhhh, Karem. I got a little hungry so I came over, but should I come back later? Mary looks like she's in a lot of pain. Uhh, she's acting kinda weird?"

"Just wait a bit. She'll recover on her own."

"Mm... so what is that? Is that why Mary's like that?"

"The result of too much greed, that's all."

One second—or three-tenths of one. Master and servant locked eyes without a word. Catherine jerked her chin toward Narke, and Karem quickly scooped and shaped another fistful of ice cream with a spoon.

A moment later—

"—Hmm♪ Hic? Ugh-gh-gh! O-ooooooooh! Hyaaaaaaaah?!"

Narke, who had been fretting over Mary, learned firsthand—writhing from head to toe—exactly why she was suffering so much.

A picture drawn by ChatGPT.