Barnaby the blackbird puffed out his chest, a tiny, coal-black puff of feathers. He perched precariously on the garden gnome’s hat, surveying his handiwork. A magnificent, perfectly symmetrical mud pie sat proudly on the patio. “Magnifique!” he chirped, admiring his creation. Just then, Penelope the pigeon strutted by, her iridescent feathers gleaming. “Barnaby, my dear,” she cooed, “what culinary masterpiece is this?”
Barnaby, ever the showman, fluffed his feathers again. “Ah, Penelope, my exquisite creation is… a white chocolate mud pie! A recipe passed down through generations of my family. A closely guarded secret.”
Penelope raised a skeptical eyebrow. “White chocolate? It looks remarkably… brown.”
Barnaby chuckled, a low rumble in his throat. “Ah, yes, well, that’s the… *aged* white chocolate. Years of careful sun-baking, you see, gives it that rich, earthy tone. Quite the process!”
Penelope tilted her head. “Aged? It looks like you just dug it out of the flowerbed.”
Barnaby cleared his throat. “Indeed! The finest flowerbed mud, naturally. Adds to the… *earthy* notes.” He took a large, rather enthusiastic bite. A moment of silence followed, then Barnaby swallowed with a grimace. “Perhaps… a touch too earthy,” he admitted, spitting out a small, wriggling worm. “Next time, I’ll stick to the worms!”
