[Seasonal Event] Good Gourd

Amalia i'll light a fire in your new shoes They work for a time in comfortable silence, the woman with her batter, the men with their seeds. Amalia finds the company pleasing, if a little unsettling: she has imagined this, since re-opening the bakery, but little can prepare an introvert for the fluttering anxiety of having company within their home. From the corner of her eye she watches carefully, taking in Rory's bustle, Deimos' quiet desecration of the gourd. Silently she hands Rory the requisite grease, a small pat of butter previously removed from the dwindling larder supplies. She will need to find more, soon, to see who has livestock and barter for milk. There are so many things she needs to do- but for now, she is content making scones. Ever moving, ever working, Amalia grabs the kettle and fills it with water before placing it upon the stove. The girl hums softly as she works, a habit leftover from years of isolation, her voice deep and melodious in the warm bakery air. As the water heats she turns back to the men, inspecting their gourds from behind the counter. "We'll throw those in the oven," she informs them, "And you can take them once they're cooked. They're good for soup." She removes the kettle from the stove and adds dry tea to steep before returning her attention to the scones. Armed with tongs and large hide gloves, Amalia carefully extracts the treats, tapping them cautiously to ensure that they are done before setting them on the counter. There are plates somewhere in the shop, part of the strange and curious collected multitude of unmatched cookware, but they will take a moment to find, and the baked goods smell sublime. She cannot help herself - as the last one comes out of the oven she slips off her gloves and takes a bite, gasping in pain at the heat that fills her mouth. Every time! her mother would have laughed (had laughed, every time). Her eyes tear, but she's grinning, laughing, covering her mouth to keep the hot scone from falling out. "'S hot!" she says, her voice muffled. She swallows the bite. "'Maybe let them cool." image by tambako @ flickr.com