Episode 2: Custom Confusion

The automatic doors of the Smith's Marketplace whooshed open with what Houston Turner could have sworn was a sigh of resignation. Twenty-three international wizards stood frozen at the threshold, their confidence evaporating faster than morning dew on the Sahara. What had seemed like a simple grocery run during their morning "Casserole-Based Social Hierarchies" class now loomed before them like a final exam they hadn't studied for. 🛒

"Remember," Professor MontClaire had said cheerfully, handing out shopping lists that looked more like archaeological fragments, "understanding local food customs is essential to magical integration. The spiritual resonance of a properly constructed casserole can amplify ward boundary effects by up to thirty-seven percent!"

Now, faced with forty-two varieties of Ranch dressing and an entire aisle dedicated to variations of cream of mushroom soup, Klaus Zimmerman gripped his shopping cart like a lifeline. "There are... so many kinds of the same thing," he whispered, his Fry Sage tag pulsing with confused energy.

Patrick Cain stood slightly apart from the group, his Oquirrh Oracle tag emanating subtle vibrations that made the fluorescent lights flicker. The geological fractures he usually sensed in mountain stone were somehow present here too, running beneath the polished floors in patterns that made no earthly sense. "The aisles," he murmured, his voice carrying that strange harmonic that only emerged near cultural landmarks, "they're aligned with something. Not cardinal directions... something else." 🏔️

"Ward boundaries," Yuki Tanaka suggested, consulting the hand-drawn map Professor MontClaire had provided. Her Jello Journeyman tag seemed to pull her toward the baking aisle with unexpected force. "She said the store sits at the intersection of three different wards."

The group split up, each armed with a portion of the shopping list. Amara Okonkwo found herself in the international foods section, searching desperately for anything familiar while her Ward Warlock tag grew uncomfortably warm. Chen Wei stood paralyzed before a wall of breakfast cereals, trying to understand how there could be seventeen different varieties of Lucky Charms.

It was in the salad dressing aisle that the first breakdown occurred.

Klaus had been doing fine with the produce section – vegetables were vegetables, after all. But faced with Original Ranch, Buttermilk Ranch, Avocado Ranch, Bacon Ranch, and something called "Ranch Seasoning Mix," his composure cracked. "This makes no sense!" he shouted, startling an elderly woman comparing expiration dates. "It's all the same white sauce! Why does it need this many variations? Is this some kind of test?" 🥗

Patrick arrived just as Klaus sank to the floor, clutching a bottle of Hidden Valley like it held the secrets of the universe. The Oracle's presence seemed to calm the chaos – or perhaps it was the way the overhead lights dimmed slightly, creating a more soothing atmosphere. "The varieties aren't about the sauce," Patrick said, his prophetic insights manifesting in the strangest ways. "They're about choice. The illusion of infinite possibility. Very American. Very... Utah."

"How do you know which one to choose?" Klaus asked desperately.

Patrick's eyes unfocused slightly, seeing patterns in the Ranch molecular structure that definitely weren't supposed to be visible to the naked eye. "The Original. Always start with the Original. You can build from there."

Meanwhile, Houston Turner had discovered something interesting in the dairy section. His dimensional awareness, usually attuned to rifts between realities, was picking up strange resonances from the sour cream. Not magical exactly, but... potential. Like these everyday ingredients were waiting to become something more.

"Patrick," he called out, "come feel this."

The Oracle approached the dairy case, and his entire body went rigid. The quartz-like veins beneath his skin began to emit a soft glow that fortunately looked like reflection from the case lighting. "Oh," he breathed. "Oh, that's... that's not supposed to happen."

"What?" Houston pressed, noting how his Teton Theurgist tag was practically vibrating.

"These ingredients," Patrick's voice carried harmonics that made nearby shopping carts rattle slightly, "they're pre-charged. Not with magic, but with... intention. Generations of the same recipes, the same Sunday dinners, the same funeral gatherings. The repetition has created a kind of spiritual memory in the molecular structure." 🧈

By the time they reconvened at checkout, most of the students looked shell-shocked. Yuki had somehow ended up with twelve boxes of Jello, all different colors. Amara clutched a single can of cream of chicken soup like it was a holy relic. Chen Wei had filled his entire cart with breakfast cereal, paralyzed by choice.

The real discovery came that evening in the academy kitchen.

"I don't understand the recipe," Yuki complained, staring at the funeral potatoes instructions that seemed to have been photocopied from a photocopy of a photocopy, with handwritten notes in the margins. "It just says 'one package frozen hash browns.' What size package? And what's a 'dollop' of sour cream?"

Houston was helping her measure ingredients when it happened. As soon as the sour cream hit the hash browns, his dimensional senses flared. "Everyone stop moving," he commanded.

The kitchen fell silent. In that stillness, they could all feel it – a subtle hum of energy emanating from the casserole dish. Not quite magical, but absolutely not mundane.

Patrick's Oracle abilities kicked into overdrive. Geological patterns usually took millennia to form, but here was something similar happening in real-time. "The combination," he said slowly, "it's creating a resonance. Like... like tectonic plates aligning, but with dairy products."

"Should we tell Professor MontClaire?" Klaus asked, still traumatized from the Ranch incident but intrigued by this development.

"Let's test it first," Houston suggested. "Tomorrow's disc golf practice. We'll eat some before we play and see what happens." 🥏

They agreed to keep it quiet, though Patrick kept muttering prophecies about "potato-powered paradigm shifts" and "the convergence of comfort food and cosmic forces." His Oracle tag flickered with images of casserole dishes arranged in mystical patterns.

The next morning's practice at the Tetons 9-hole course provided shocking results.

Houston stood at the first tee, having consumed exactly three spoonfuls of funeral potatoes for breakfast. As he gripped his disc, the familiar dimensional awareness he always felt expanded. But instead of sensing rifts between realities, he was sensing... ward boundaries? Energy flows? The spiritual geography Professor MontClaire always talked about suddenly wasn't theoretical.

His drive sailed through the air with unusual grace, following a path that seemed to ride invisible currents. The disc curved around obstacles he hadn't even consciously noticed, landing precisely in the fairway's center.

"The funeral potatoes," Yuki breathed, her own enhanced throw having just threaded between two trees with impossible precision. "They're not amplifying our magic. They're letting us feel the local magical environment!"

Patrick stood apart, his Oracle senses overwhelmed by the sudden clarity. Where before he'd sensed vague patterns, now he could see the entire energetic framework of West Jordan laid out like a vast geological survey. "This is what Professor MontClaire sees all the time," he said. "This is why she talks about Walmart parking lots like they're sacred sites. Because to someone who can sense these patterns... they are."

"We should definitely tell her now," Klaus said, watching his disc follow a trajectory that defied both physics and traditional magical theory. "This is huge."

But Patrick's expression had turned troubled. The Oracle was seeing further ahead, sensing tremors in the suburban magical landscape. "Something's watching," he said quietly. "The patterns are disturbed. Someone doesn't want us to discover this."

As if in response to his words, a figure appeared at the course's edge. An older woman in a pioneer-print dress, watching them with sharp eyes behind hexagonal spectacles. She made a note in a small notebook, shook her head disapprovingly, and disappeared behind the pro shop.

"Who was that?" Amara asked.

Patrick's Oracle abilities provided the answer, though he wished they hadn't. "Someone who thinks we're playing with forces we don't understand. Someone who's been protecting these secrets for a very long time."

The practice continued, but the mood had shifted. They'd discovered something wonderful – the funeral potatoes were a bridge between their magic and the local spiritual landscape. But they'd also attracted attention they weren't prepared for.

That evening, Professor MontClaire listened to their report with growing excitement. "Of course! The repetitive preparation, the communal consumption, the emotional investment – funeral potatoes aren't just food, they're a cultural artifact infused with decades of intention! This explains why my readings at the ward potluck last month showed such unusual resonance patterns!"

She immediately began sketching diagrams that connected funeral potato molecular structure to ward boundary fluctuations, lost in academic ecstasy. But Houston noticed Patrick standing by the window, his Oracle senses still troubled.

"What do you see?" Houston asked quietly.

Patrick's voice carried those strange harmonics that emerged during prophecy. "A choice approaching. Between preserving traditions and embracing evolution. The potatoes were just the beginning. Someone's going to make us choose sides."

"And if we don't?"

The Oracle's eyes reflected depths that seemed to contain entire mountain ranges. "Then the tremors I'm sensing become earthquakes. Magical ones. The kind that remake landscapes... or destroy them." 🌋

As the students settled in for their evening studies, mixing magical theory with casserole recipes, none of them noticed the figure watching from the parking lot. Making notes. Planning. Deciding that these foreign wizards had already learned too much about powers that should remain properly buried beneath layers of hash browns and tradition.

The Custom Confusion was evolving into something else. Something that smelled like funeral potatoes and felt like the first tremors of a magical avalanche.

And somewhere in the suburban night, the Oquirrh Mountains themselves seemed to pulse with anticipation, as if they too were waiting to see what would happen when tradition and innovation finally collided over a casserole dish.