Oswin smiles, one of her quick, uncontrolled smiles that seem to get away from her on occasion (and she'll deny the blush that she forces down soon after until the day she dies, truly she will).
"You're wandering further and further away from tweed - your fellow professors would be shocked." She retorts instead, scooping the chopped nuts back into their bowl and grabbing batter (smelling of buttermilk and cinnamon) and spoon instead. The batter sizzles on the griddle, and she pours six perfect disks before marring their starkness with a sprinkling of nuts and berries for each.