The Cupcake That Giggles — By the first clang of the copper pans, Pippa had lined up twelve paper cups and tapped flour into a bowl with a puff-puff-puff. Read the full story →
By the first clang of the copper pans, Pippa had lined up twelve paper cups and tapped flour into a bowl with a puff-puff-puff. She wanted every cook, scullery runner, and sleepy fire-stoker to get a crown-cake before the noon bell. Butter smelled warm and nutty; sugar clicked like tiny hail in the spoon. “No tasting the stars yet,” she told the frosted cupcakes cooling on the rack.
The batter grew glossy under her whisk. Outside the arched window, flags snapped above the towers, and inside, the brick oven hummed like a dragon pretending to nap. Pippa reached for one last scoop of flour. The scoop wiggled. Then it giggled. Not a polite royal giggle—a snorty, floury, hiccupy giggle that sent a white cloud over her nose.
Out tumbled a walnut-sized kitchen imp wearing a paper cupcake liner as a hat. “I’ve been sprinkling belonging crumbs,” he said, dusting his elbows. “They make every cake taste like your own chair at the table.” Pippa laughed so hard her braids bounced, then set one tiny cup near the oven door. When the noon bell rang, everyone found a seat, even the imp, and if you peek at the flour scoop, you might still hear puff-puff-puff.
