The Tale of Cinzia

Where architecture meets sugar, and every recipe becomes a small universe.

I. The Blueprint of Calm

Before the flour, before the sweetness — there were only lines. Lines of symmetry, of control, of purpose.

I was an architect then, shaping the world with reason. Every wall I drew stood firm; every light I placed obeyed the logic of space. My life was a perfect structure — elegant, precise, and utterly silent.

Beauty was everywhere, and yet I could not feel it. I was building perfection, not warmth. Somewhere beneath the marble and the glass, something whispered: “What if the house you’re building has no door for your own heart?”

II. The Fracture

The whisper became a rumble. Cracks appeared where I had drawn straight lines. Blue ink spread like veins across my paper — as if the drawings themselves were alive, rebelling against me.

Then, the ground trembled. A low roar rose from beneath my studio floor, shaking the glass and scattering my tools. The earth split open — and from the fissure emerged a dragon, its scales like molten copper, its breath heavy with iron and burnt sugar.

It did not speak in words, but in heat. With a single exhale, the blueprints I had worshiped for years curled and blackened, lifting like dark petals into the air.

III. The Battle of the Architect

At first, I ran. Fire poured through models and shelves; glass shattered, marble cracked — the order I adored turned to dust. But inside the blaze I saw color, light, movement — life refusing to be measured.

Something inside me broke free. I seized a steel ruler — my narrow blade of reason — and faced the beast. When it lunged, I did not hide. I struck where the scales glowed closest to its heart. Metal rang like a bell; flames rose in spirals, yet I did not burn.

The dragon faltered, bowed, and in that tremor I stepped forward, trembling but unafraid. I pressed my hand to its chest and found a living ember — small, bright, and warm as dawn. I lifted it free. The dragon dissolved into light, not defeated but released, and the heat remained in my hands.

IV. The Return to the Kitchen

When the fire settled, so did I. Where the studio had stood, a small kitchen appeared — as if born from the ash. On the counter: a bowl, a bag of flour, my mother’s recipe written in fading ink.

I baked without thinking. Butter melted like forgiveness; sugar turned to light. The ember glowed within the oven’s window, guiding the heat. As the dough rose, something inside me rose too.

Each batch became a quiet spell; each cookie, a mark of resurrection. I was not rebuilding a career — I was rebuilding myself.

V. The Magic of Chaos

In the kitchen, chaos was not the enemy — it was the language of creation. Flour scattered like stardust, timing faltered and then aligned; and still, everything came together, sweeter than planned.

Architecture gave me form; the dragon gave me life. There is geometry even in imperfection — a sacred symmetry between what breaks and what heals. So I blended both worlds: I designed recipes like blueprints and built stories like rooms filled with light, scent, and memory.

VI. The Sugar Lantern

Now, in my kitchen in Germany, a small sugar lantern stands on the counter. It lights only when I bake for others — a gentle glow that hums with everything I’ve learned: warmth can be built, love can be designed, and even from chaos, beauty can rise again.

Baking, like architecture, is an act of protection: walls that hold laughter, roofs that shelter tears, doors that open only to kindness. When I bake, the lantern flickers on — and I know the house is alive again.

VII. The Invitation

Perhaps, when you open my books and light your own oven, you will feel it too — that pulse of magic in your fingertips, the quiet alchemy that turns sugar into courage and chaos into art.

When it happens, follow it. That is where the magic begins.