She stood staring at the recipe before her. The lines scribbled out and notes decorating the edges of the small square made it clear that this was a work in progress, made of trial and errors. So, with her elbows covered in flour and her fingers coated in oils, she worked. Kneading the dough, punching it down, and finally being able to roll and cut the pieces. Carefully setting up the cooking sheets and waiting on pins and needles, picking at cuticles and biting fingernails until time to take out the pan and have a taste. Only to be disappointed once more. After six long years of trying, the flavor still wasn’t quite right. Throw this batch out to the dogs.
“Ellie,” Sky risked life and limb to stick his head in to the kitchen and try to talk reason, “Come on El, if you haven’t gotten it by now…”
The glare she sent his way would have turned most men to stone. The baked good she through at his head, however, was fluffy and soft as a cloud that was raining droplets of butter. “Look, you’ve done so much in the last few years. You own and manage the hottest bakery in the tri-county area, you published a cook book with all original recipes, and you are making bank off of it all. Just use the canned stuff if you won’t feed us these delightful bits of batter.”
“Canned stuff? I can’t believe you just said that to me,” Ellie raged, turning on him and snatching the bread from his hand. “Don’t you remember that night? The dripping blood, the screams? I swore after the Great Crescent Tragedy of ’08 that I would NEVER use canned again!” Ending on a shouted sob, the chef turned back to the scattered remains of her ingredients and resolutely began dumping a new batch into her bowl, muttering to herself the entire time.
Shaking his head, Sky ducked out and turned to the other three friends gathered around Ellie’s dining room table. “Sorry guys, no rolls tonight either.”