Sorry, folks, I've been really sick lately. I*s anyone enjoying this, perchance?

Twelfth Installment

Back in my chambers, though, I had to face facts: what did I have? One phoenix egg, and a collection of recipes.
I couldn’t think like a chef, so I thought like a research student: Start basic.
I scribed the recipes from my Goggles into a book. Then: “Eggs,” I said. Three titles appeared:

Crème Brulee de Foie Gras au Chocolat
Chocolate Tongue Profiteroles
Balut

I looked out the window where stars burned. Start with the weirdest one, you’ll only get more weary as the night drags on.
I brushed the last entry with a finger… and read salvation from the pages:

Balut

This island entrée is for only the most discerning gourmand, as the hoi-polloi are uniformly incapable of developing a palate necessary to appreciate the interplay of flavors resulting from a proper preparation of this dish.
Harvesting the eggs presents difficulty, as one must precisely gauge the development of the egg required. Of course, any common avis domestica can be used, but the truly distinguished palate can accept no substitute for the wild partridge or pheasant.
Once, chefs selected eggs approximately 7/10 of the way through the incubation period, but today’s gourmets prefer chicks matured for at least 4/5 of their incubation, cultivating tender but defined bones. The higher quality dining experience results from the unique crunch thus obtained. Traditional balut is marinated in the style…

Phoenix eggs would be good for one of the dishes… maybe. It was a meat dish and an egg dish. It was definitely haute cuisine, Angwy would have to allow it or be shamed.
If only I had the eleven days to incubate it. If only I had more time! I cursed myself. I should have cast a time extension spell on myself while I’d had the chance; I could have made this night last twice as long for myself. Of course, I’d have needed a willing substitute: the Law of Conservation of Time meant that for me to double my subjective time I’d have needed someone else to halve theirs. But Gods above, I could have bribed any of the guards or maids to do that, and all it would have cost them would have been feeling a little tired the next day! When I had studied at the College, we had Timeshared with each other so that everyone got two nights to cram the day before they faced the Examiners. Perhaps if I waked Trelesta, she’d be my Time Sink for the night. Or not.
Still, I had little choice. I couldn’t extend time for myself for the eleven days it would take the egg to mature for balut…
I stopped. Oh. As simple as that, was it?
I snatched the pair of scales from my desk, weighing the egg: two ounces. Multiply by eleven days. For the egg to age 264 hours in one hour, The Law of Conservation of Time stated that I would have to experience only one hour in 264. I would appear to be in a coma for eleven days.
But now I got to factor in the Law of Conservation of Mass. The egg weighed less than a thousandth of what I did. In the hour of the spell’s duration, I would experience a mere 15 minutes.
Trembling, I scribed the runes around the egg, and up the side of my arm, and then spoke the words of power. The candle flame shifted toward a greenish yellow. I saw the moon begin crawling across the sky with visible speed.
When the light returned to normal, I picked up the egg. The ink had faded considerably. Steeling myself for failure, I cracked it.