Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs

Last time I found myself inside a brioche I was in college. Back then, young and broke, we were sharing a glorious and crumbling apartment located right above a pastry shop. And every morning it was the same story: they started taking stuff out of the oven around six and the tricky smell of croissants was going up the walls, turning my calm dreams of glory into surrealistic nightmares. If I was lucky, I'd find myself swimming in a cloud of leavening dough, with my hair smeared with apricot jam. In the worst case scenarios, instead, I'd struggle inside a swimming-pool of chantilly, or I'd plough with difficulty a sea of ganache cream abroad a beignet, while sugar crystals were hailing from the sky.

Instead of a brioche, this time I found myself inside a Jell-O castle and wearing a pair of 3D glasses I could enjoy the show fully awake and sitting comfortably on a chair, without risking a painful awakening.

What am I talking about? Drank too much? Smoked something weird? No, don't worry; it's just Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs. Everything's clear now, isn't it? If not, look here and give yourself way to pancakes' showers, colorful ice-cream's mountains, rivers full of syrup and spaghetti tornados.
Be aware of meatballs, though.