SALLY RELISH
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 theWild 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 dancingbakers!”
“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 twoother 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.