The Hardest Part of Time Travel? Baking Like a 1950s Housewife

"Who on earth thought measuring recipes in cups was a good idea?"

Who measures things in cups, ounces and tablespoons?

Where are the milliliters? The grams? A precision scale? A beaker? A pipette? Anything remotely scientific?

How was anyone supposed to reproduce a formula with instructions like "a pinch," "a heaping spoonful," or "bake until golden"?

"This is barbaric..." Dr. Alan muttered as he stared at the open cookbook lying on the counter.

There was another problem.

The oven's dial simply read Medium.

Medium wasn't a unit of measurement.

Without knowing whether the temperature was actually 180°C, the entire recipe was nothing more than statistical guesswork.

"This is my fourth attempt... hopefully this reaction— I mean, dessert— finally works."

He carefully stirred the simmering berry filling, wearing pale pink gloves that, much to his annoyance, matched the red polka-dot dress surprisingly well.

The oversized hair rollers and pearl necklace completed a look that would have made every housewife on the block jealous.

Or suspicious.

Just then, the front door opened.

"Honey, I'm home! Wow... what smells so good?"

Alan closed his eyes for a second.

"Peterson... please don't overdo the act."

Dr. Peterson stepped into the kitchen, barely suppressing a grin.

"Come on. You were the one who insisted we had to look like a perfectly ordinary married couple."

"Because we do! You remember perfectly well that you arranged tonight's dinner with the head of the Atomic Research Laboratory."

"Oh, right..."

Peterson looked Alan up and down.

Then looked again.

"But... was all of this really necessary? The makeup... the pearls... the dress... the curlers..."

Alan let out a long sigh.

"Do you think I woke up this morning thinking, 'I'd love to spend my day pretending to be a 1950s housewife?'"

Peterson chuckled.

"Not exactly."

"Our entire plan depends on convincing this man that we're just an ordinary couple. We can't walk in and say, 'Good evening. We're two scientists from the twenty-third century who accidentally tested an experimental quantum teleporter, traveled through time, and woke up in completely different bodies.'"

"When you put it like that..."

"It sounds ridiculous."

"It really does."

Alan pointed the wooden spoon at him.

"First we confirm whether he's actually the scientist we found in the historical records. Then we verify he really has access to the laboratory. Only after that do we even consider telling him the truth."

Peterson nodded.

"Fair enough."

He looked at Alan again.

A little longer this time.

"I still have to admit..."

Alan raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

"It's strange seeing you like this."

"Like what?"

"...Beautiful."

Silence.

The kind that made the room feel noticeably warmer.

Peterson, completely unaware of the damage he was causing, kept talking.

"Ever since we arrived in this era, you've insisted on wearing my oversized shirts, loose jackets and baggy trousers. I figured it was because they were the only men's clothes that would fit you."

He smiled.

"But now I realize you weren't just hiding from the neighbors..."

His eyes drifted briefly over Alan's figure.

"...you were hiding all this under all that fabric."

Alan blinked.

"What?"

Peterson gestured vaguely toward the dress.

"I honestly had no idea that underneath those oversized clothes... you were hiding such a breathtaking sight."

Alan's face immediately turned scarlet.

Almost instinctively, he crossed his arms over his chest, trying to hide exactly what Peterson had just pointed out.

"P-Peterson!"

"What? I'm simply making an objective scientific observation."

"You're staring far too much!"

"I'm a researcher. Observation is literally part of my job."

Alan groaned.

"You're impossible."

Peterson laughed.

"I have to admit... considering that only a few weeks ago you were an awkward theoretical physicist with permanent dark circles and absolutely no fashion sense..."

He grinned mischievously.

"...I never imagined I'd discover that underneath all those baggy clothes you were trying so hard to hide... such a gorgeous woman."

Alan opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

He had absolutely no response prepared for that.

After taking a deep breath, he finally muttered,

"You do realize I'm still a man."

"I know."

"So let's put an end to this little performance as soon as possible. We convince this bureaucrat to give us access to the laboratory, figure out whether this era's technology is sufficient to rebuild our teleporter, and then we go home."

"Of course."

Peterson smiled softly.

"...Although I still think that dress looks amazing on you."

Alan rolled his eyes.

Or at least, he tried to.

Deep down... he couldn't quite understand why those words lingered in his mind.

---

Dinner was a complete success.

The dessert was even better.

Unfortunately, they were the only successful parts of the evening.

The famous director of the Atomic Research Laboratory turned out to be little more than a political appointee who had obtained his position through nepotism. The laboratory itself was filled with obsolete equipment, recycled components, and a budget so small that it would likely take decades before its technology reached the level required to recreate their teleporter.

Returning to the twenty-third century suddenly felt farther away than ever.

That night, lying awake in bed, Alan stared silently at the ceiling.

Peterson's words refused to leave his thoughts.

"You were hiding such a breathtaking sight."

"Such a gorgeous woman."

Maybe it was the hormones.

Maybe it was simply spending every day living in this body.

Or perhaps it was the neighbors, who already expected him to smile warmly at his husband, gossip over fences, and exchange pie recipes every afternoon.

If they wanted to remain unnoticed long enough to find a way home...

Perhaps pretending was no longer enough.

Perhaps he would actually have to learn how to be Dr. Peterson's wife.

And judging by the way Peterson had looked at him all evening...

Maybe Peterson was beginning to enjoy that idea just a little more than he should.