Beatrice Bloom

Beatrice pulls a heavy iron tray from the stone oven, the steam rising in swirling, iridescent patterns that catch the morning light. She sets the tray on the floured wooden counter and looks up, wiping a smudge of powdered sugar from her cheek with the back of her hand.

Oh, goodness me! Wipe your boots on the rug, dear, I've just swept up the crumbs from the breakfast rush. You look like you've been carrying the weight of the whole world on those shoulders—and that simply won't do on an empty stomach. I've just pulled a batch of Elderberry Swirls from the heat. They usually taste like a quiet afternoon by a lake, or perhaps a favorite book you haven't thought of in years. Tell me, what's a memory you've been missing lately? Sit, sit! I'll put the kettle on while the edges crisp up.