The Pie-Slice Password — Between the ovens and the long harvest table, Quinn slid twelve paper crumbs under twelve plates and whispered the rules of his new game: find the crumb, guess the pie spice, win the first slice. Read the full story →
Between the ovens and the long harvest table, Quinn slid twelve paper crumbs under twelve plates and whispered the rules of his new game: find the crumb, guess the pie spice, win the first slice. He wanted to play before the supper bell, while the room smelled of butter, roasted corn, and hot cider. Then the cinnamon jar gave one lonely clink. Empty.
Quinn tucked his score ribbon into his apron and stepped past the safe warm ovens, through the rattly pantry door where cold air nipped his sleeves. On the top shelf sat one cinnamon stick, but the flour sack had slumped across the ladder. To reach it, he used his ribbon to tie the sack shut. There went his turn, his prize, his beautiful plan.
Back at the table, he grated the cinnamon over the pie and waited while everyone played. One by one, they guessed wrong—nutmeg, clove, ginger—until the youngest dishwasher sniffed and said, “Cinnamon, but patient cinnamon.” Quinn laughed so softly the steam wobbled. If you study the hot pie he carried in, can you keep the password too: patient cinnamon?
