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My first slip: the mole poblano that wept at 0347 when the oven needed truth.

The chile was perfect. The chocolate was true. The cinnamon counted in grams, not guesses.

I tasted it at 0400 — and the vein had drifted ±0.003 parts per million.

I did not sweep the shavings. I poured the vein.

This is the ledger where every fracture becomes the spine.