Chapter 1:  A Cake for Mazy Bundle

Mr Bundle was a terrible driver. He was probably the worst driver that Edmonton had ever seen. Riding with him was like getting stuck on the scariest, fastest, most nauseating ride at the carnival-- where you scream from start to finish and cry at the end, stumbling away with your head on backwards and your clothes turned inside-out.

So you can imagine how surprised Mrs Bundle was when her birthday cake was not flipped or mucked on the ride home.

For most of this particular day in May, she had sat on the front porch of the house where she lived with Mr Bundle, soaking her feet in a big basin of mayonnaise, reading a magazine for women in their seventies (and today Mrs Bundle had advanced as far into her seventies as anyone ever could. Next year, she would have to subscribe to the Eighty-Years-And-Up mags, which she was not looking forward to in the least.) She was a pudgy, silver-haired woman, with a sizable dimple at the base of her chin, and cheerful creases at the corners of her eyes. Despite her age, Mrs Bundle was as quick and lively as a cricket. Her husband, on the other hand, was a tall, blowzy-looking man, with clunky feet. He had no hair on top at all, but great tufts of it protruding from his ears-- as if dandelions had gone to seed inside his head and puffed out the sides.

Mr Bundle stopped the car midway into the azalea bushes. He got out with a thick set of grey-rimmed glasses perched crookedly on his nose, and a big, white box clutched in his arms. Tramping across the lawn, he held the box up for Mrs Bundle to see, as if it were a prize he had won. Mrs Bundle threw her magazine on the ground and hurried across the porch, leaving splotchy mayonnaise-footprints behind her.

“What have you got there, Harold?”giggled Mrs Bundle.

“Tut-tut,” grinned Mr Bundle, arriving at the porch and holding the box above his head so that Mrs Bundle couldn't reach. She tried jumping for it, but nearly slipped on the sauce under her feet. Mr Bundle laughed, “I've come to see a loony, old woman, who happens to be turning seventy-ninetoday,” he declared, “so move aside, Young Lady-- I'm going inside to find her!” He bustled past his wife and into the house. 

“Ohhh, you're in for it!” cackled Mrs Bundle, rushing after him, painting a trail of greasy footprints all the way down the hallway. 

The month of May meant the snow in Edmonton had almost entirely melted, with only tiny, iceberg-shaped piles of it dotting the neighbourhood, like frozen lawn ornaments. The air smelled of wet wood on these days, with traces of rain in the grass and trees, dripping on the poor sods who walked under those leafy boughs when the wind picked up.

The Bundles' front yard was a big, grassy lot, pestered by clovers and thistles. A few bushes bloomed pink and yellow beside the driveway, and a narrow concrete path led from the sidewalk to the front door.

They lived in a simple brown house, with a fat wooden porch running along the front of it and three square windows facing the street. Mrs Bundle had hung purple curtains in the windows and set flower pots packed with daisies along the edge of the porch. The front door was a beautiful turquoise green. It had a big, silver knocker at the top and a shiny, brass doorknob.

The Bundles' backyard was hidden behind enormous hedges. Not just garden-variety green things, but extraordinarily tall, silvery-green bushes that glistened in the daylight, as if they were made from real metal. Each wall was the length and bulk of two city buses piled up. No matter where you stood, you could barely see the Bundles' little chimney peaking over the trimmed tops. The hedges were as neat as a wall of bricks, with flat sides and even tops, and branches so dense, the yard behind them was blocked-out entirely.

“...They must use one of those trucks with a lift-thingy on it,” Ms Briggs had crooned. “like the telephone repairman uses to fix power lines after a storm.” Her head was bent all the way back, staring way up at the hedge-tops, trying to reason how on earth anyone could get up there to trim. And while some neighbours found the sheer size of the bushes fascinating, many of them sighed and shook their heads. “Poor old Bundles,” they would say, “they're off their rockers, didn't you know? Look-- they've gone and spray-painted their hedges silver!”

Mrs Bundle snuck up behind Mr Bundle in the kitchen and nabbed the box away from him. It was heavy. She scuttled over to the kitchen table and gently set the box beside a vase of purple crocuses.

Mr Bundle removed two little plates from the cupboard while Mrs Bundle pulled the box open and whooped at the beautiful cake inside: lemon cake, layered with raspberry Italian buttercream and fresh raspberries, drizzled with white chocolate ganache, topped with pink lettering that spelledMazy, you're amazing!

“Harold,” she gushed, “you didn't squish it! You didn't flip it or mush it! What a beautiful cake-- and all in one piece! That's amazing!”

Mr Bundle nodded.

“It would be amazing if you'd wipe that gunk off,” he said, eyeing the mayonnaise smears across the floor. Globs of it were sliding off the tops of her feet.“You're leaving sloppy footprints all over the place!”

Mrs Bundle scoffed at her husband and fetched a towel from a drawer beside the sink. She took a seat at the table and rubbed her feet clean. Mr Bundle cut two enormous slices of cake and plopped one on a plate in front of his wife.

“Happy Birthday, Mazy,” he sang, kissing her on the forehead and lighting a little candle he'd pushed into the top of her cake slice. Mrs Bundle laughed.

“Seventy-nine years old,” she whistled. “Well, nothing better than some cake and a quiet evening, right? ...Ohhh, I had such a relaxing day, Harold! I slept late, had tea and tarts for breakfast, and there were no calls all day long! Not one! I was free to do as I wanted, and I haven't had a day to do as I pleased since... well, since last year, when I turned seventy-eight! ...Today, I feel I've been charged-up, like a big old battery!" 

Mr Bundle smiled distractedly, wondering if he had forgotten something.

Mrs Bundle shoveled an enormous forkful of cake into her mouth.

 

...It tasted like being seven-years-old.
Lemons: Sucking sugar-dipped lemon slices on the porch while making a 
game of tossing clothes pins into a bucket at the foot of the stairs.
White Chocolate: A white, bunny-shaped chocolate treat. Mazy bit the ears off in one bite.
Buttercream: Butter on hot bread. Eating spoonfuls of butter when no one was looking.
Raspberries: “Mazy,” smiled her mother, “hand me that pail will you?”
The raspberry bushes were taller than Mazy, with enormous leaves like handkerchiefs and raspberries as big as these big buttons on her dress.
She'd wiped her hands on the front of it.
There was juice around her mouth,on her hands, on this dress.
The berries were wonderfully fat and sweet.
She hadn't put any raspberries into her silver bucket.
Mother, on the other hand, had picked buckets full.

 

“Doob yoob rike it?” asked Mr Bundle, through a mouthful of cake. Mrs Bundle nodded happily. Mr Bundle had icing around his mouth and in his hair. He was shoveling the cake into his face so quickly, his fork was having a tap-dancing attack on the plate. Bits of cake and buttercream were flying at Mrs Bundle's face, landing in her hair and on her nose and on the floor and the table and the cupboards. 

“Harold!” she quacked, covering her mouth to keep from spitting cake all over the place. Mr Bundle stopped clacking his fork and squinted at her through the flecks of icing on his glasses, cake bulging in his cheeks. Mrs Bundle wiped her face with her apron. She burst into such a loud fit of laughter, Mr Bundle jumped and nearly fell off his seat-- which had Mrs Bundle laughing even louder. Then he began to chuckle along with her, pulling his square-rimmed glasses off and using his shirt tails to wipe off the lenses.

“Hellloooo!” sang a voice from down the hallway. The Bundles stopped.

“...Can I come in?”

The Bundles looked at each other with wide eyes.

“...Well, I've come inside! The door was open! ...Mazy? ...Harold? Are you here?”

“Oh no...” whispered Mr Bundle.

“Not today,” choked Mrs Bundle.

Chapter 2:  An Unexpected Guest

“Oh, you are here!” hooted Mrs Relish, rounding the corner into the kitchen and spying the Bundles sitting at the table, speckled with buttercream.

She was an extremely short woman with frizzy, red hair and a stubby nose that wiggled around in the middle of her face while she spoke—as if she was bothered by a bit of fluff stuck beneath it. She carried an enormous purse, shaped like a glossy, blue whale, which hung on her arm and dragged on the floor when she walked. Her voice was bold and bright, like a dinner bell, punctuated with honking laughs that could knock your ears off with a single blow.

“And here I thought maybe I was breaking into your house! HA— just joking— I  was watching out my front window and I saw your car pull into the drive! ...I'm simply here to say SURPRISE! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NEIGHBOUR!” She whacked Mrs Bundle on the back and laughed loudly. “...I'll bet you're shocked that I know—Harold said it was a secret!”

A startled Mr Bundle dropped his fork on the floor. Mrs Bundle stepped on it, pinning it to the floor with her foot, and Mr Bundle was fork-less.

“Two days ago,” prattled Mrs Relish, her nose bouncing up and down, “I spotted Harold at the Strathcona Farmer's Market, and I was shocked to discover that he'd shown up alone! Very strange, very strange... So I pounced on him and asked him where you were. He said you were at home, and he was trying to find you a perfect cake for your birthday. HA! ...'A birthday cake?!' I asked, '...when for? Because my daughter is a Baker's Assistant at the very best bakery!' ...Well, it's terribly, terribly good, Mazy— all  homemade and scrumptious!  ...'I need it for Monday,' he said—then he panicked, like a cat falling into the sink, and begged me to keep my mouth shut! -Said you wanted to have a quiet little ho-hum? ...HA! Mazy Bundle, you're seventy-nine today and you don't want a party?” Mrs Relish snorted at the ceiling.

“No I- it's-” stammered Mrs Bundle, “it's- well, Harold has-”

“Oh yes!” clapped Mrs Relish. “Yes, yes— Harold got a cake— very good-” She gazed around the kitchen, nose wiggling. “Not a very festive looking place though, is it? Rather messy, isn't it! Well, what a good thing that I've come by to help!” she beamed, showing large front teeth.

Mr Bundle shifted in his chair, wiping sticky fingers on his trousers. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked at his wife, then back to Mrs Relish, who was smiling eagerly at them.

“We're keeping it simple, Rosie,” he said, “nothing fancy.”

“A quiet day,” added Mrs Bundle anxiously.

“Yes, just a quiet day for two,” nodded Mr Bundle. “The cake is great—here, I'll cut you a piece to go-” 

Mrs Relish made a loud, farting sound with her mouth. 

“Don't be a ding-dong!” she laughed. “I know when I'm needed— this birthday is about as fun as a stink bomb! ...Well, it's lucky we're neighbours— neighbours look out for each other— I'll  pluck things up around here yet! ...Harold, you brought the cake, now I'm bringing the party! HA!”

Mr Bundle looked as though he'd been splashed with hot water.

Mrs Bundle dropped her fork on the floor... Mr Bundle stooped down and picked it up; he rubbed it on his shirt and set it on her plate, smiling nervously at his wife.

“Rosie,” he said slowly, turning back to Mrs Relish, lifting a bushy eyebrow, “...what sort of-” 

“Oh, it's going to be smashing!” Mrs Relish cheered. “I've invited some of our neighbours— they'll be here any minute! Dorris Briggs, Fred and Julie Lapin— Fred's hearing has gotten worse, so speak loudly for him! Thomas Quips said he'd try to come, too. Margaret Wallis and Jean Mild were thrilled by the invitation! And while my sweet husband, Toddy, had to work tonight—he's  got his own hotdog stand you know—there'll  be my daughter, Sally! HA!”

The Bundles gasped and choked on their breath. They looked at each other with wide eyes, dizzied by the news. They were as muddled as mice caught in a pickle jar. 

Mrs Bundle puffed out her cheeks, pulled-off her apron and pitched it onto the kitchen table. Mr Bundle opened and closed his mouth silently, like a fish out of water. He leaned into his elbow, twiddling one of his bushy eyebrows into a pointy knot—a nervous habit that often made the hair above his eye stick-out like a bristly thorn. Mrs Relish, meanwhile, checked the time on her plastic wristwatch and fiddled with a zipper on her purse, clearly unaware of how ruffled the Bundles had become. 

“I've brought balloons!” she said suddenly, smiling.

Mrs Bundle wanted to reply with something that would really sting—a remark that would push this meddling woman out the door with a swift kick—but instead, Mrs Bundle pinched her lips shut and made a face like she'd eaten a lemon. In her experience, bickering with Mrs Relish was like asking a snake to bite.

Mr Bundle glanced at his wife, then cleared his throat at their frizzy-haired visitor.

“Rosie,” he breathed, “we just want a quiet-”

“Did you know you've got pink stuff spattered all up the front of you?” chuckled Mrs Relish, pointing at the buttercream on his shirt with a toothy grin. “It's as if you've laid in it—the way my dog lies in a puddle when it's hot outside! HA!” she whacked him on the back and walked casually about the kitchen, pulling her whale-shaped bag alongside her. There was raspberry buttercream spattered all over the place, and mayonnaise tracked across the floor, too, spread further still by the sled-like drag of Mrs Relish's purse moving about.

“You're not hearing me!” sputtered Mr Bundle, more sternly this time. “...If Mazy wanted a party I would've planned one for her!”

“Oh cut it out, you string bean!” Mrs Relish barked, her nose wiggling. “You couldn't plan the party I've stewed-up if you followed a recipe! HA! ...This will definitely, definitely be the talk of the block for ages—a first-rate bash— only second to the 'Great New Year's Event of 1999', which happened at my house by the way, and to which pop icon, Prince himself, attended!” She stared fiercely at them, her eyes wide like a spooked  horse, breathing heavily, daring either one of them to challenge her.

“Alright! Enough! We'll do it,” bellowed Mrs Bundle, throwing her arms in the air and rolling her eyes.

“You mean-” Mr Bundle stopped, “you mean you're- I mean, we're... having a party?”

“Ugh... I... I suppose we are,” Mrs Bundle huffed, standing and pulling a rag from beside the sink, filling a bucket with water and a squirt of soap. “...Let's get it done on my day off!” she said. “...And-” she whispered to her husband, “the sooner they arrive, the sooner they leave.”

“Oh fantastic! What fun!” clapped Mrs Relish, heaving her whale-shaped purse onto an empty chair and reaching into it. The bag was so big and wide, the top half of Mrs Relish disappeared inside it. Her legs kicked the air wildly as she picked and clanked through its contents, humming jovially to herself. She pulled herself out again, with some colourful streamers in one hand and a bag of balloons in the other. “Decorations!” she sang, throwing them at the Bundles and diving back into her purse. 

Mr Bundle watched the little woman's legs thrashing about.

“...Are you sure about this?” he hissed at his wife.

“No, I'm not!” Mrs Bundle hissed back, chuckling and shaking her head.

Mr Bundle ripped a bag of balloons and began huffing into a red one. 

Mrs Bundle wiped up and down the counters and cupboards and floors, pulling the bucket of soapy water along with her. Even the vase of purple crocuses in the middle of the table got a wipe-

“Hello?” called a voice from down the hallway.

“Has someone arrived?” yelled a voice from inside the whale-shaped purse. Mrs Relish heaved herself out, her hair sticking straight up. “I said, has someone arrived?”

Mr Bundle nodded, pink in the face, the tip of that red balloon gurgling in his mouth. Mrs Bundle threw the cloth and bucket into the sink, and tiptoed back to her seat at the table.

“Hello? Can we come in?” piped that voice from down the hallway.

“Oh, goodness, yes! Come in! Come in, whoever you are!” shrieked Mrs Relish, dashing out of the kitchen and around the corner. “It's Fred and Julie Lapin!” she announced from down the hallway— soon returning, pulling the Lapins behind her. Mr Quips came trotting up behind them with a black case in one hand, his stomach grumbling. Next came Mrs Mild and Mrs Wallis, who were giggling enthusiastically and wearing puffy, pink dresses. Ms Briggs breezed-in twenty minutes later. And Sally Relish, Mrs Relish's twenty-two-year-old daughter, arrived last of all. She rushed into the room with flushed cheeks, out of breath, staring frantically about at all the unfamiliar faces until she spotted her mother.

“Sorry,” Sally puffed quietly, tip-toeing into the kitchen and standing beside Mrs Relish, “the bus was late...” 

Her hair was the same rusty red as her mother's, though twice as frizzy, and tied into a curly bundle on top of her head, with a green ribbon that hung nearly to the floor. When she walked, the ribbon-ends blew out behind her, like tails on a kite. She wore a flossy white blouse with short, ruffled sleeves, and a black jumper with two big pockets on the front of it. ...Sally was slightly taller than her mother—which was still very short, mind you—but  she had wide, fearful eyes that made her seem much smaller. As small as a bug.

“You're just in time, Dear,” chirped Mrs Relish, passing her daughter several rolls of colourful streamers, tossing more to the other guests. “Take some decorations! Get them up! Spread them around! I've got more if you need them.”

“Oh goody!” clapped Mrs Mild. “We love decorating!”

“And we're very good at it!” added Mrs Wallis, grappling with an orange streamer.

  “Is there anything to eat?” asked Mr Quips. 

Mrs Bundle stared around at the other guests, a little smile creeping onto her face... Mrs Wallis was fighting with that orange streamer—half of it had gotten tangled around her leg. Mrs Relish was sticking strips of tape to the walls, securing bobbling balloons here and there, in low-hanging bunches. Ms Briggs was batting at a blue balloon, like a cat with a ball of yarn. Mrs Mild was humming a cheerful tune and hanging a long red streamer over the doorway. ...To her great surprise, Mrs Bundle was enjoying herself! She grinned at Mr Quips and pointed at the partially-cut confection in front of her-

“-We've certainly got enough cake for everyone,” she said. Mr Bundle bolted out of his seat to fetch a pile of plates and forks from the cupboard. 

In an attempt to seat everyone, the Bundles found a laundry hamper with a closed lid for Ms Briggs to sit on, and an old piano bench for the Lapins to share. Sally sat beside her mother in a little rocking chair that creaked and croaked, back and forth,  turning her face a mortified shade of red. ...Soon enough, that whole lot of company had crowded around the kitchen table, like elephants at a watering hole. They covered that cake with so many candles, the buttercream began to melt. They sang Happy Birthday so loudly, they rattled the plates in the cupboards, and Mrs Bundle laughed and laughed-- until she was as red as the balloon Mr Bundle had abandoned, limp and sticky, on the kitchen table.  Then they all ate that cake down to the last crumb.

Chapter 3: After the Dancing

All the party guests were tired and hot by the time daylight had faded through the kitchen window. Mrs Bundle's birthday party was still going strong, with treats and crumbs on the dinner table and bits of shiny wrapping paper strewn out over the floor amid the confetti. And the old woman had been amazed by all the clever birthday gifts these guests had brought along:

The Lapins had given Mrs Bundle seventy-nine sugar cookies, each one with a candle painted on it, stacked-up like a cake. Ms Briggs had decorated a pair of long hedge clippers with bright, flowery patterns. Mrs Wallis and Mrs Mild had written a poem for Mrs Bundle, which they had recited while standing on creaky chairs in the middle of the kitchen-

“Get on with the music, Thomas!” Mrs Relish had shouted.

And Mr Quips had brought-out a beautiful violin, the colour of maple syrup—he had played peppery ditties that had moved Mrs Bundle into snapitty-tapping a pair of spoons against her knee—and that's what had started everyone dancing around and around, flitting their feet about, like jumping fish—until, now late into the evening, they all collapsed into their seats, covered with streamers and confetti and crumbs, gasping for breath.

Mr Bundle flicked-on a lamp in the kitchen corner, spreading warm yellow light through the room, like a campfire. 

“And who made that lovely birthday cake?” panted Mrs Wallis, wiping her fingers on the hem of her dress and smacking her thin lips together.

“Well, Sally helped with it!” Mrs Relish puffed, fanning her face with a decorative napkin; bits of confetti blew out of her frizzy hair. “My daughter's a Baker's Assistant, which means she helps everyone at the bakery do everything! HA! ...Oh, Sally dear, be sure to tell the other bakers that the cake for Mrs Bundle was a big hit!”

Sally nodded lightly and creaked backwards in her chair.

“So you made the cake then, Sally?” asked Mrs Mild, raising her pencil-sketched eyebrows. Sally shook her head and smiled at the woman.

“HA!” laughed Mrs Relish, swatting the long, dangly ends of Sally's green hair-ribbon. “Now don't be a ninny, my dear! You helped with that cake—go on and tell Mrs Mild how very talented you are!”  

Sally picked at a crumb stuck to her jumper and cleared her throat several times.

“I made the icing,” she said quickly. Her mother nodded proudly.

“Raspberry Italian buttercream!” Mrs Relish beamed, standing to collect messy dishes from around the table; a fluttering of confetti flew out of her hair and onto the floor. “...No other bakery in the city makes it—and Sally made the icing on that cake all by herself! HA!” 

“Oh, good for you, Sally-” grinned Mrs Mild.

“I'd like to spread it on toast...” continued Mrs Relish thoughtfully, heaving a pile of plates into a clattery stack beside the sink (she was so short, her chin was level with the countertop). “...Italian buttercream on toast! Oh, I love the raspberries—and the raspberry white chocolate scones! Well—terribly, terribly good!”

“Hear that, Frederick?” Mrs Lapin whooped. “Raspberry white chocolate scones? ...Sally must work at the Wild Earth Bakery!”

“Tooting right she does!” chirped Mrs Relish, slopping cutlery into the sink.

“...WHAT? ” shouted Mr Lapin, fiddling with his hearing aid.

“The bakery, Fred!” Mrs Lapin shouted back, “...RASPBERRY SCONES!”

“Oh, yes, I'll have one!” nodded Mr Lapin.

“...We go every Saturday,” Mrs Lapin simpered to the group, “raspberry white chocolate scones and chai lattés-”

“I go every day!” hooted Mrs Relish, her nose wiggling madly. “I have four cups of coffee there every day!” 

“Good grief,” scoffed Mr Quips, “every day?”

“Yes!” clucked the little woman. She fluffed-up her hair and a scattering of confetti flittered out of it. “Four cups of coffee every day—and a macaroon on Mondays, and a tart on Tuesdays, and then on Wednesdays—banana bread with walnuts!” She smiled around at the guests, as if expecting applause. “...Tiramisu-in-a-jar on Thursdays, flan on Fridays, then raspberry scones on Saturdays and Sundays! HA!” 

“Tiramisu served in a jar?” giggled Mrs Mild, looking from Mrs Relish to Sally.

“Oh yes, yes!” Mrs Relish squawked eagerly. “And other things—like crême brûlée—they scoop sugar on top of that one, right when it's ordered, and then they blast it with a great big torch!” 

“Ohh, it's like a show!” clapped Mrs Mild.

“It IS a show!” cackled Mrs Relish. She grabbed a tea towel off the counter and wiped her hands on it, tossed it back where it came from. “I haven't missed a day since last spring! HA! Sally had just finished pastry school, and we were poking about, sniffing-out different shops she might want to work in—well, when we found this one—that's when we knew Sally had to sign up for plenty of dance classes-”

“The Wild Earth Bakery...” piped-up Ms Briggs, slowly brightening, “...that's the place with all the dancing bakers!”

“Dancing bakers?” asked Mrs Mild.

“I love dancing!” said Mrs Wallis. She smiled dimly and fluffed-up her pink dress.

“Yes!” clapped Mrs Relish. “You've got to be a thumping good dancer to work there—all the bakers are!” 

“...The bakers dance?” puzzled Mr Bundle, giving his wife a look; Mrs Bundle shrugged at him and stared curiously back at Mrs Relish.

“They've got to!” sang the little woman. “...How else could they move about in a busy kitchen, doing fifty things at once? HA! ...They've got to be very, very quick—and they can't be bumping into each other, like sloppy monkeys—the bakers are mixing ingredients, sliding full-trays in the oven, pulling hot-trays out of the oven, bagging fresh bread, rolling pie crusts, stirring pots and everything else!” She leaned her elbow up against the counter, catching her breath and chuckling. “...And they're not just baking for one shop, either! HA! Oh no, no—the bakery is the main shop...” she grinned, “...but the bakers also bake for two other shops—two Wild Earth coffee shops, set in different parts of of the city—the main shop sends them trucks full of homemade baking every day!”

“Utter madness!” Mr Quips puffed.

“Oh, but it's not!” said Mrs Relish, her nose flittering. “Even while the bakers are whipping-up treats for hundreds and hundreds of people—and while the kitchen could be a great scuffling mess of dropped batches and rattled bakers—it never is, and that's because they're all thumping good at dancing! HA!”

“...We've seen the bakers dancing, haven't we, Frederick?” smiled Mrs Lapin primly. After a moment, she nudged her husband and he looked over at her blankly. “...Aren't they fun, Fred?” she nodded.

“...WHAT?” shouted Mr Lapin, tapping a finger against his ear.

“The bakery, Frederick!” Mrs Lapin hollered. “...DANCING BAKERS!”

“Oh, yeesss!” Mr Lapin brightened, looking around at everyone; the grin on his face stretched all the way up to his eyes. “...Have you seen them? Aren't they fun!”

“I've just heard about them,” shrugged Ms Briggs. “I've heard they're tremendous!”

“They are! HA! Exactly—tremendous!” hooted Mrs Relish. “They're stupendous! They're brainy—dancing at a bakery—why, it just hasn't been done! It gets everything moving about brilliantly! As quick as a wit!”

“...And you dance along with the rest of them, Sally?” marvelled Mrs Mild.

“Of course she does, you lump!” Mrs Relish chirped. “She's stinking good at it!”

Sally gave a jumpy smile, her face flushed.

“Oh, I'd like to see that!” clapped Mrs Mild. “...Would you-” she stopped, grinning hopefully, “...would you show us how you do it, Sally? Just a little flit about the kitchen?”

“Oh, yes! Please! We've never seen a dancing baker!” nodded Ms Briggs.

“Neither have I!” said Mrs Wallis.

Sally swallowed a great lump in her throat.

“What a good idea—you can do that, Sally!” hooted Mrs Relish. “What a great bit of practice! ...She dances about at home, you know-” she said to the others, “she's baked since she was a wee thing of course, but now—now she can move like the wind! Not like before—oh, no, no—she used to work as slowly as a slug! HA! Yes, yes—and I think a bit of practice in front of a crowd would do you some good, Sally!” 

Sally got an awful look on her face—like she'd just sat in a puddle.

Mrs Relish gazed around the kitchen and spotted a pair of high-up cupboards that looked like they would probably have some useful ingredients in them. 

“I'll just take a peak at what we've got around here—bet you could whip-up a batch of Grandma's Cookies, Sally!” sang Mrs Relish, her nose wiggling feverishly. “A family recipe! Oh, yes! Definitely, definitely—those cookies can be made out of almost anything!”

She hurried over to the table and grabbed her empty chair, beginning to drag it across the floor. Mr Bundle cleared his throat irritably. Mrs Bundle made a gurgling sound.

“Now, Rosie, don't go poking about in the cupboards,” said Mr Bundle in his most authoritative voice, clearing his throat and getting to his feet.

Mrs Relish shot him a knowing grin and said, “I won't use your things all up! Don't worry, you goose, it'll just be a little batch. A tiny taste—enough for you to see how cleverly Sally whips it all together! HA!” Then she turned around and pushed that chair across the kitchen, catching wrapping paper and confetti under its legs, shoving it up beside the counter. She wiggled herself up to standing on it, popped-open a tall cupboard and began digging through it, like a squirrel searching for nuts in a tree. “Got any cinnamon, Mazy?” she called, pulling all sorts of things out of the cupboard and examining them one by one, her nose wiggling. She tossed some things on the kitchen counter, others she threw back onto the nearest shelf. 

 . . . Stay tuned kids!  Another heaping portion of fictional fun is on its way!