[ He's murdered it. His hands are red with batter.

The blender... is dead.

Despairingly, ]

...We may have to, considering the time.

[ He turns a blind eye to how his royally tailored cloak is being made into an oversized napkin, though he uses a tea towel to do the same to clean off his own hands. As he regains his composure though, he lets out a long breath, scanning his eyes over the wreckage. There's still plenty of flour and sugar and eggs, and they shouldn't have much trouble chopping up more dried fruit (which they can at least recognize). He can't use a stand mixer blender, but he knows his way around a knife.

Whether it's stubborn, spiteful determination, the desire to do his best at this completely menial task, or a mix of both, he directs Sylvain at the eggs again. ]

Why don't we try using the methods we're more familiar with? No reason we could not mix things together with wooden spoons rather than machines.

[ They can try again. Even if it's not great... ]