The Steam That Waited — Beside the warm counter, Willa held a wooden spoon like a royal scepter and waited for the casserole to make its first proper puff. Read the full story →
Beside the warm counter, Willa held a wooden spoon like a royal scepter and waited for the casserole to make its first proper puff. The kitchen smelled of cinnamon, melted butter, and toasted pecans, but Aunt Rue had said, “Not yet—the marshmallows need their little hats to slump.” So Willa watched the candle drip, the snow dots tap the window, and the hanging spoons shine without clinking.
A thin curl of steam finally rose. Then another. Willa leaned closer, and a voice squeaked, “Seven!” Out of the steam popped a chef no taller than a thumb, with a hat made of warm air and a mustache that twirled both ways. He sniffed each puff and counted, “Cinnamon, butter, yam, pecan, sugar, nutmeg… and patience.” Willa swallowed a laugh so hard her nose snorted.
The tiny chef bowed to the gingerbread cookies on the shelf. “We never serve the first smell,” he whispered. “We save it for the person who waits.” When Aunt Rue carried in the plates, the casserole sighed one grand, sweet cloud. Next time you see steam curling over marshmallows, hold still a second—Willa says you might hear someone counting, “Seven!”
