A Measure of Rise

I wanted to love this more than I did. The premise — a returning pastry chef choosing between spectacle and ritual — is promising, and there are flashes of real beauty (the kneading scene, Horace’s grumpy personality, the noon-fog vendors). But the story leans a bit too hard on quaintness and ends up predictable. The moral dilemma is framed like it will be complicated, yet the available choices feel disappointingly binary: career or community, fame or ritual, with little middle ground shown. The town’s rituals are charming, but sometimes they read as decorative rather than consequential; the market bell and clocksmiths are neat images that don’t seem to affect the stakes in a meaningful way. Pacing also drags in places — long, lovingly detailed passages about dough are lovely, but when plot momentum is needed (when Rowan must actually make the decision), the narrative glosses over the harder consequences. One specific moment that bugged me: Horace’s aside about sugar is cute the first time, but it’s used as a crutch to elicit warmth rather than to develop tension. Overall the story has heart and skill, but it plays safe when it should be riskier; it hints at richer ethical complications and then steps back. Good, but not as memorable as it could have been.

Brilliantly weird in all the right ways. If you ever wondered what it would be like to live somewhere where the oven has opinions and people buy fog by the hour, this story is for you. Rowan’s craft scenes are so tactile I could almost smell the caramel and hear Horace croon when a croissant hits the steam. 😂 The moment where the community crowds around the starter with improvised repairs had me cheering — it’s both funny and absolutely sincere. The interactive element is treated like a real moral question, not a gimmick: selling out for fame or defending a ritual feels like two very human (and believable) paths. Also, shout-out for the little absurdities — clocksmiths swapping minute hands? Chef’s kiss. Playful, warm, and thoroughly modern folklore. I loved it.

Quiet and affectionate. The excerpt made me slow down — the way kneading is described as “honest, loud” work really landed. Horace’s personality (an oven that sighs like an actor) is charmingly specific; small choices like protecting a communal starter carry real weight here. The town rituals — market bells and traded minute hands — add an offbeat warmth without ever feeling gimmicky. Short, restrained, and lovely.

This is a smart piece of interactive fiction that rewards attention to craft. The author uses sensory details — the weigh of a bowl on the scale, the leather-like pull of dough — to make you feel Rowan’s decisions. I appreciated how the community itself acts as a character: the bell that dictates market rhythms, the clocksmiths with their minute-hand talismans, and vendors selling 'noon fog' as if that's a normal Saturday. Gameplay-wise, the moral choice about the communal starter is handled well; options feel like real trade-offs between personal ambition and shared tradition. The improvised repairs scene was particularly satisfying, a hands-on solution that reinforced the theme of workmanship over spectacle. My only nitpick is that some of the side characters could be fleshed out more, but overall this is an enjoyable, thoughtful read for anyone who loves food, craft, and small-town weirdness.

I fell hard for this tiny, absurd town. From the opening paragraph where Rowan kneads like a sculptor to the way the bakery smells of lemon oil and proofing, the prose here is tactile and alive. Horace the oven is a delight — that creak and his grumpy aside (“Too much sugar last night”) made me laugh out loud and actually care about an inanimate appliance. The moral hinge — whether to turn the communal starter into a career-making spectacle or protect the ritual — is handled with so much warmth and nuance. I loved the scene where the whole town gathers to patch the starter, hands flour-dusted and earnest; it captures communal labor better than a dozen earnest manifestos. Little absurd details, like vendors hawking 'noon fog' and clocksmiths swapping minute hands, give the world charm without derailing the emotional stakes. The interactive-fiction aspect felt meaningful: choices don't just change an ending, they change what success looks like. If you like stories about craft, small rituals, and the messy ethics of ambition, this one will stick with you like a stubborn bit of dough. Beautiful, funny, and honest.