Hazel’s Apron Pocket Secret — The secret was in Hazel’s apron pocket: one tiny wooden button, flat as a penny, carved with a crooked wheat stalk. She rubbed it whenever her fingers forgot what to do. Read the full story →
The secret was in Hazel’s apron pocket: one tiny wooden button, flat as a penny, carved with a crooked wheat stalk. She rubbed it whenever her fingers forgot what to do. This morning she wanted to finish the pie edge by herself before the oven clock clicked, but the spice shelf gave only cinnamon and a puff of dusty, sweet air. No cloves. No clove smell at all.
So Hazel slipped out of the warm stove kitchen and padded across the cool pantry hall, where the floorboards whispered creak-creak under her socks. A jar waited on the highest shelf, just out of reach. She stacked a tin, stretched, and paid her price: the button popped loose and skittered behind a sack of cornmeal. “Oh, you sneaky little thing,” she whispered. When she fished it out, its wheat stalk had pressed a mark into the spilled flour.
Hazel carried back the cloves, but she carried something better too. With the button’s carved side, she stamped tiny wheat marks around the pie crust, each one made by her own hand. The oven breathed buttery heat; the kitchen smelled like spice and toasted dough. If you spot the proud smile near the open oven, keep the secret: it began with one tiny wooden button, flat as a penny.
