Christmas Confection Perfection – Advent Calendar Day #2
Day #2 – Friends in the Kitchen
Ashton
Ashton walked out of the coffee shop dabbing at the splashes and stains on his suit coat, tie, and collard shirt. His stumbling over the red wagon had been such a blur, how had he managed such an embarrassing feat within his first couple of days in the new city? The one saving grace was that it wasn’t another small town where everyone within a fifty-mile radius would know by noon about the blunder. Or at least that was his hope…it was a city, lots of people meant anonymity, right?
He chided himself for not paying closer attention nonetheless.
Standing there at the counter, he had glanced at his phone to see a text from his recruiter come through, informing him that his interview had been moved up an hour.
Now he had ten minutes to cross three city blocks and show up for the most important meeting of his new start…covered in cocoa.
It was his rush that had him spin around and collide with the side of the wagon.
He would now have to attend this second-round interview looking like he collided with a cocoa bomb. Perhaps the hiring manager would see the humor, or festivity? Ashton grimaced and decided to focus on rushing to the interview location.
He crossed the street, dabbing futilely at his tie, and wincing at his throbbing shin.
A memory of the woman with the red wagon, er, delivery truck, flashed in his mind. He chuckled despite himself. The woman had been pretty quaint for a city like this. Her embarrassment had been endearing, charming even. Too often people tried to pretend they were flawless, but she hadn’t.
And she’d been…well, beautiful. Dark hair swooped back in a bun, warm brown eyes, and lashes that had no business being that long.
He caught himself. He hadn’t thought this much about a woman in months. Since Prim, at least. He knew he had been awkward with the woman, but he was just out of practice is all. Awkward yes, hopefully he hadn’t come off as rude though.
As he walked, the city hummed around him, busy and indifferent to his presence. So unlike the town he had moved from; where everyone knew everyone, where everyone knew everyone else’s business. Where cocoa stained tie would have been subject of discussion, or at least rumor. No one seemed to notice him here though.
Everyone was rushing somewhere, no one looking up. Maybe that was what he had been trying to fix by moving here, a life so full it felt empty. He’d spent months convincing himself that starting over meant forgetting. Cold buildings hardly kept old memories at bay though. Apparently, even new cities came with old ghosts…and cocoa stains.
By the time his thoughts had settled, he was in front of the red brick building for his interview. The color red stood out to him. Again with the red. An omen? A destiny? He hardly believed those things; Ashton Montgomery was much too practical and much too logical. He noticed it was red as a matter of pattern, that was all. If the building had been gray, he wouldn’t have thought anything of it one way or the other—a lack of pattern would not have meant anything, so why should red as a pattern mean anything? It was red, all he needed to consider was trying to not trip this time.
The building loomed over the sidewalk, its frosted windows reflecting the weak winter light. Two minutes until his interview, he had made it just in time. He straightened his stained tie and took a breath.
This might be his new life, this building, this job, this city. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
For the first time since the move, Ashton wondered what exactly he was trying to find here.
He took a step forward.
Mary
Mary’s walk home after the coffee shop fiasco felt twice as long as normal. Her feet dragged, and the red wagon (so reliable that morning) now tugged back rebelliously with one wheel squeaking in protest. The wheel started acting up just after the tripping incident. She would have to pull out a screwdriver and see what she could do to fix it.
Then she would have to figure out how to fix her poor phone too. It took three tries and a fair bit of muttering to end her live stream earlier. The cracked screen hardly responded, making every swipe an exasperating struggle. A new phone was probably inevitable…and also not in the budget.
By the time she reached her apartment building, her embarrassment had settled into exhaustion. She hauled the wagon inside, crossed the lobby, and jabbed the elevator button. Nothing happened.
After two full minutes of waiting, the building maintenance tech shuffled by, toolbox in hand.
“Mr. James,” she called to the ancient man. “Is the elevator out of order?”
“Only if you want it to go up,” he said with an air of sarcasm.
Mary stuttered at his response. “Oh? Are you going to put up a sign?”
He blinked at her, completely unbothered. “Why? You already know it’s broken. Need a reminder? Your memory must be worse than mine!”
Her mouth opened, then closed again. “Well, no, I—okay.”
But Mr. James had already ambled off toward the maintenance closet, the door creaking shut behind him.
Mary stared at the silent elevator, then turned toward the stairwell. Six stories, a broken phone, a wobbly wagon, and one spectacularly embarrassing live stream. She sighed and glanced at the red wagon waiting patiently beside her. “At least you still work,” she said softly, tugging the handle toward the stairs. “Mostly.”
***
After an afternoon of wagon wheel repairs, grocery shopping, and washing dishes, Mary was finally ready to settle into her favorite part of the day: baking.
This was when she could relax and shake her shoulders of their stress-induced stiffness. Mary’s kitchen was her haven in the city. Cozy, meticulous, and dressed head-to-toe for Christmas. Tiny trees, snowmen, and gingerbread houses filled all available surface spaces. Garlands of popcorn, cranberries, and dried oranges draped across the cabinets, and strings of fairy lights gave the space a warm glow. The semi-permanent scent of cinnamon and butter clung to the air from repeated days of baking wonderful goodies.
The table at the center of the kitchen was perfectly cleared, save for a few bowls and ingredients waiting for their turn in the spotlight. Her phone, cracked screen and all, sat propped up at the opposite end of the table, ready to record Friends in the Kitchen. The camera angle was low, giving the illusion that the viewer sat across from Mary, elbow on the table, ready to bake and gossip. Which was precisely the point. Her vlog wasn’t about recipes, it was about company. About laughter, small talk, and feeling like someone was there in the kitchen with you.
Mary started the vlog after losing Abigail. The two had built the delivery bakery business together and the kitchen had always been their special place. Baking was how they bonded as two young sisters growing up and how they kept that bond and tradition going through their shared entrepreneurial effort. When Mary turned on the camera and spoke across the table, it almost felt like Abigail was still there talking, listening, and laughing with her.
Now, on another quiet Wednesday evening, the circle light glowed, Christmas music hummed softly in the background, and Mary tied on her apron. She only had about eighty followers, but they were loyal, her new friends in the kitchen.
“Hi, friends,” she smiles into the camera. “I hope some of you managed to get to the Whispering Hearth today for that peppermint bark. Hopefully you did and enjoyed it, because I don’t think I can go back there again! I am sure most of you saw what happened. I wish I could crawl under a rock. That poor man. His shins are probably bruised.”
She shrugged and looked at the camera, as if to say oh well, not much I can do about it. “Honestly, it’s a miracle Mrs. O’Hara let me keep the wagon.”
The comments began to trickle in, faint through the fractured glass of her phone. She leaned closer, squinting at the screen, there seemed to be more comments than usual.
I tried the bark! It was delicious! One comment read.
I would have died on the spot. You handled it like a champ.
You may have to move to another city!
Accidents happen, don’t worry about it too much.
His shins will remember that for a while.
That guy was a hottie. Another follower typed.
Mary grinned at the last comment. “He was cute, wasn’t he? Which makes it all the worse. I could just crawl under this table. Why couldn’t he have been ugly? You don’t bounce back from flattening someone handsome with a red wagon!”
She started pulling out ingredients, the camera catching her laugh, the music, and the warm kitchen light, all the things that made her little corner of the world glow.
“But enough of that! There is nothing some cinnamon swirl bread and catching up can’t cure, right?”
A flurry of agreeable comments came through the screen and Mary smiled.
“Okay, so, confession time. This recipe wasn’t supposed to happen today. I was going to make sugar cookies, but my mixer and I got into an argument this morning, and… well, cinnamon bread doesn’t require forgiveness.”
Mary showed her viewers the measurements and started stirring flour and sugar together.
“Anyway. I hope your week’s been kind to you. Or at least mercifully short. So, here’s the deal, this recipe came from my sister, Abigail. She used to call it her ‘good day bread,’ because the smell alone can fix almost anything. I’ve tested that theory a few times, and she’s not wrong.”
Mary leaned forward over the table to peer at the camera, as if looking straight into the face of a dear friend. “You ever notice that when you bake, people just…start talking? Like it’s a rule. You get the butter out, and suddenly everyone’s confessing their life story. Happens every time I bring cinnamon rolls to the Christmas tree lot too. Good food and baking are like, truth elixir.”
Mary started mixing the dough, skillfully showing her work to the camera for anyone who might be following along. “Speaking of the tree lot. The issues I told you about with the permit? Well that has all been cleared up and the lot opens tomorrow night! I know most people have their trees by now…but if you don’t and you’re in the city here, please stop by and see us. The Peterson Tree Lot on Kingman Avenue.”
Mary got to work kneading the dough on the counter. “Okay, this part takes a little arm work. You can totally use a mixer, but I like to knead it myself. It’s like therapy that ends with bread!”
There was a flurry of reactions that showed up on her phone screen, as her fellow baking friends enthusiastically agreed.
“How’s everyone doing with gifts this year?” Mary asked, keeping the conversation going as she worked. “Because I’m officially at that point where I’m considering giving everyone baked goods and calling it ‘artisanal.’ Is that lame?”
Another wave of comments showed up, the resounding sentiment being that artisanal gifts were the heartbeat of the holiday season.
“Actually, Elsie told me she started wrapping her gifts in brown paper with cookie cutters tied on top, which is so dang sweet. That’s something I love about Christmas; everyone adds a little bit of themselves to it. Even if it’s just a new bow, or a funny story, or cookies that are maybe a little too brown on the bottom…no foreshadowing there though.”
Mary laughed at herself.
In no time, the handsome man with the bruised shins was out of her mind. She and her friends moved on to topics of pop culture, holiday traditions, and a debate on the health benefits of carrot cake (it’s made from veggies! It must be healthy!).
As Mary laughed and baked in her cozy kitchen, the red wagon waited dutifully in the corner, also enjoying the cozy atmosphere.