That is Doc being twelve in a space where he allows himself to be twelve. And it seems to have gotten a laugh out of Malcolm, so. That is all the better. Sometimes there is no use wallowing in the lot that life or Mathias or whoever else is giving to them.

"I am crusty and flaky already," he points out. "Comes naturally with age. No flour blessings required." He tugs the mixing bowl over and dumps the dough out onto the floured surface.

"Would you like to do the honours?" While Doc looks for something to cut round biscuits with. "Seven or eight kneads should be enough."