I’d heard whispers about her witchy ways, apparently descended from the Pendle crew. Backed up by her bubbling pot on the stove.

The way she weighed without scales, just the right quantities. Powders danced in the air as they were added to that familiar mixing bowl.

She stirred. With effort as her ingredients mixed with a struggle.
Pungent at first but as the magic worked with heat a comforting smell.

Promise of delights to come as time ticked on. We had to wait she’d say. Every time. But we didn’t. Too eager. Burning our mouths on that fresh baked bread.


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