Part 2

But in the blink of an eye, everything changed!

Momo’s internal crisis was suddenly, violently interrupted.

Not by the smell of smoke.

But by a sound.

A very specific, very tiny, and very unexpected sound.

Squeak.

Momo’s eyes, already wide, widened further.

This wasn’t possible.

Slowly, carefully, Momo lowered his dramatic arm.

He unpeeled his hand from his forehead. 🤦‍♂️

He stared at his left foot.

The foot that was still held high, pointing confidently towards the sky.

He had expected it to be just a foot.

A big, strong, ape foot.

Instead, he was met with a pair of tiny, beady, black eyes.

And a tiny, twitching pink nose.

Clinging for dear life to the rough hair between his second and third toe…

Was a very confused, very tiny, very pale field mouse. 🐭

It was dressed, unexpectedly, in a little green vest.

And it was holding a micro-sized, hand-written recipe card.

Momo and the mouse stared at each other for a long, quiet moment.

The lush green background, once a backdrop for Momo’s culinary panic, seemed to pause.

The sounds of the jungle faded.

Momo’s dramatic posture—that perfect leg-up-pose—now had a completely different meaning.

He wasn’t a panicked ape.

He was an ape surprised by a hitchhiking rodent.

The mouse, let’s call him Barnaby, took a shaky breath.

He adjusted his tiny green vest.

He looked up at the towering gorilla above him.

“Excuse me, Mr. Momo,” Barnaby squeaked, his voice barely a whisper.

“But I think you might be the person I’m looking for.”

Momo, utterly speechless, simply stared.

“I’m the Official Ingredient Auditor for the Bake-Off,” Barnaby explained, waving the tiny card.

“I’ve been tracking you all morning.”

“Your cocoa sourcing was impec-able. A-plus for ethical trading.”

“Your banana selection protocol was excellent.”

Barnaby paused for dramatic effect.

“But we do have one final requirement.”

“And that, Mr. Momo, is an audit of your baking process.”

Momo felt his heart, which had previously stopped for fear of burning his cake, now stop for an entirely different reason.

He hadn’t been worrying about the bake-off criteria.

He’d been worrying about his actual baking skills.

Specifically, his memory.

Barnaby’s eyes twinkled.

“I observed your practice victory dance.”

“Excellent technique. 🩰 Very expressive.”

“However,” Barnaby continued, his expression turning serious.

“I did notice a certain… distraction.”

“A moment when your dance went from joy to… terror?”

Momo gulped.

“The oven, Mr. Momo.”

“Did you, by any chance, remember to set the timer for the Triple-Choc-Chunky-Monkey?”