Soren Waits for Warm Butter — Beside the supper bench, Soren tucked one more warm roll into the basket and sniffed the yeasty steam. Read the full story →
Beside the supper bench, Soren tucked one more warm roll into the basket and sniffed the yeasty steam. He wanted soft butter before the grown-ups called everyone in, so he padded down the quiet hall to the cool dairy room. The stone floor felt chilly through his socks. On the shelf, the butter crock sat firm as a little brick. Soren sighed and reached for it anyway.
“Wait, wait,” chirped a voice. A speckled cellar cricket blinked from behind the crock, rubbing its legs with a tiny scrape-scrape sound. “Cold butter tears warm bread.” Soren sat on an upside-down pail and waited while the crock softened in a square of late sun. He listened to the house hum, to spoons clink far away, to his own tummy grumble. At last the butter gave under his thumb. Soren carried it back slowly, with wheat tickling his wrist, and if you peek at the feast basket, you may spot the quiet reward he waited for.
