Saffi’s Borrowed Spoonful — Under the striped awning of the candy market, Saffi tapped her mother’s tiny measuring spoon against an empty bowl: tink, tink, tink. Read the full story →
Under the striped awning of the candy market, Saffi tapped her mother’s tiny measuring spoon against an empty bowl: tink, tink, tink. She needed one spoonful of sunrise spice for the first batch of Glow-Buns, the kind that made everybody grin before breakfast, but her own jar held only a cinnamon-smelling dust ring. The spoon was no bigger than her thumb, silver at the tip from years of stirring, and Saffi kept it tied to her apron string like a secret.
Past the peppermint wheels and sugar-star crates she went, following a warm orange smell to the spice cart at the far corner. “One spoonful, please,” she whispered. The spice seller shook his bells. “Last scoop costs one candy star.” Saffi’s pocket held exactly one—the blue sugar star she had saved since snow-melt. She traded it anyway, though her fingers felt lonely without its crackly edges.
Back at her little house, the batter sighed and sent up a golden curl of steam. Saffi tasted one Glow-Bun, then laughed so hard the spoon chimed against the bowl. The joy was too huge to fit in her mouth. She broke the buns into warm pieces for every stall, and if you spot her spoon, I dare you to imagine its tiny tink, tink, tink.
