Read Online The Power of Poppy Pendle by Natasha Lowe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Natasha Lowe
Ads: Link
So this is how I feel, Mum. When I bake a new cookie or cupcake I get all tingly inside and want to dance and sing and jump up and down all at once. I wish you could understand and weren’t always so disappointed in me. I know I am never going to be like Great-Granny Mabel, although sometimes I wish that I were. Then perhaps you might be proud of me.
Love, Poppy
There was nothing in the letter they didn’t already know, but maybe, just maybe, Poppy thought wistfully, they would read it and understand. When she had finished, Poppy folded up the pages and slid the letter into an envelope. She printed “Mr. and Mrs. Pendle, 10 Pudding Lane, Potts Bottom” on the front. It was only as she was about to creep out to post it that Poppy realized her parents would see where it had been mailed from. Then they would know she was still in the village, and be bound to find her. Not sure what else to do, Poppy slipped the letter into her pocket. For now, she told herself.
The caramel cookies were a huge success. They sold out completely. “Everybody loved them,” Marie Claire said as they tidied up the shop at the end of the day. “One woman told me they were the best-tasting cookies she’d ever eaten.”
Poppy, who was pushing a mop enthusiastically across the floor, couldn’t stop smiling. “I feel so at home, Marie Claire.” She breathed in deeply. “Even the smell of this bakery is comforting. It makes me feel like a baby inside, all safe and warm.”
“Maybe that’s because you’re standing right where a little girl was born,” said Marie Claire.
“Right here?” Poppy looked down, as if there might still be traces of a baby left on the floor. “A real baby?”
“As real as they get,” Marie Claire said, remembering that strange and special day. “She ate a whole bag of my almond cakes. I’ve often wondered what happened to her.” She sighed and shook her head. “The parents never did come back to tell me. Ah well, it is as it’s destined to be, I suppose.” Poppy didn’t really understand what Marie Claire meant by this, but she could tell that the Frenchwoman was lost in her thoughts.
A peaceful silence settled on the shop until Poppy said softly, “It must have been wonderful for your son to grow up here.”
“He liked it well enough, but Pierre is not a cook. Flying is his great love.” Marie Claire gave a resigned smile. “He would help out when I needed it, of course, but there was no passion there. That’s what a truly great baker must have,” she said, holding both hands over her heart. “Passion!”
“Kibet fallow da,” Poppy burst out. “That was our school motto. It means to follow your passion.”
“And so you are, chérie . Love is what makes my bread so good, and you have that passion. You have great talent.”
“Do I really?” Poppy said, hardly daring to believe what Marie Claire was telling her.
“Indeed you do, child.” And if Poppy could have smiled any wider, her face would have split in two. “I will help your parents understand,” Marie Claire continued. “Perhaps we can arrange it so that you can make your special caramel cookies every Wednesday after school. It will be something nice for the customers to look forward to.”
“Oh, and I could make coconut cupcakes on Mondays.” Poppy suggested, clapping her hands with enthusiasm. “Or coffee cupcakes, perhaps. I have a wonderful idea for coffee cupcakes. And how about chocolate melt-aways on Thursdays? Everyone always loves those. And raspberry jam shortbreads on Fridays?”
Marie Claire shook her head and laughed. “One recipe at a time, Poppy, one recipe at a time. It all sounds quite delicious though, chérie . I am sure you will make the customers very happy!”
The next day Poppy woke at four o’clock to help Marie Claire get started on the bread doughs. She loved being in the kitchen at such an early hour, the heavy quiet and the dark outside. At around five thirty she put a tray of cherry
Love, Poppy
There was nothing in the letter they didn’t already know, but maybe, just maybe, Poppy thought wistfully, they would read it and understand. When she had finished, Poppy folded up the pages and slid the letter into an envelope. She printed “Mr. and Mrs. Pendle, 10 Pudding Lane, Potts Bottom” on the front. It was only as she was about to creep out to post it that Poppy realized her parents would see where it had been mailed from. Then they would know she was still in the village, and be bound to find her. Not sure what else to do, Poppy slipped the letter into her pocket. For now, she told herself.
The caramel cookies were a huge success. They sold out completely. “Everybody loved them,” Marie Claire said as they tidied up the shop at the end of the day. “One woman told me they were the best-tasting cookies she’d ever eaten.”
Poppy, who was pushing a mop enthusiastically across the floor, couldn’t stop smiling. “I feel so at home, Marie Claire.” She breathed in deeply. “Even the smell of this bakery is comforting. It makes me feel like a baby inside, all safe and warm.”
“Maybe that’s because you’re standing right where a little girl was born,” said Marie Claire.
“Right here?” Poppy looked down, as if there might still be traces of a baby left on the floor. “A real baby?”
“As real as they get,” Marie Claire said, remembering that strange and special day. “She ate a whole bag of my almond cakes. I’ve often wondered what happened to her.” She sighed and shook her head. “The parents never did come back to tell me. Ah well, it is as it’s destined to be, I suppose.” Poppy didn’t really understand what Marie Claire meant by this, but she could tell that the Frenchwoman was lost in her thoughts.
A peaceful silence settled on the shop until Poppy said softly, “It must have been wonderful for your son to grow up here.”
“He liked it well enough, but Pierre is not a cook. Flying is his great love.” Marie Claire gave a resigned smile. “He would help out when I needed it, of course, but there was no passion there. That’s what a truly great baker must have,” she said, holding both hands over her heart. “Passion!”
“Kibet fallow da,” Poppy burst out. “That was our school motto. It means to follow your passion.”
“And so you are, chérie . Love is what makes my bread so good, and you have that passion. You have great talent.”
“Do I really?” Poppy said, hardly daring to believe what Marie Claire was telling her.
“Indeed you do, child.” And if Poppy could have smiled any wider, her face would have split in two. “I will help your parents understand,” Marie Claire continued. “Perhaps we can arrange it so that you can make your special caramel cookies every Wednesday after school. It will be something nice for the customers to look forward to.”
“Oh, and I could make coconut cupcakes on Mondays.” Poppy suggested, clapping her hands with enthusiasm. “Or coffee cupcakes, perhaps. I have a wonderful idea for coffee cupcakes. And how about chocolate melt-aways on Thursdays? Everyone always loves those. And raspberry jam shortbreads on Fridays?”
Marie Claire shook her head and laughed. “One recipe at a time, Poppy, one recipe at a time. It all sounds quite delicious though, chérie . I am sure you will make the customers very happy!”
The next day Poppy woke at four o’clock to help Marie Claire get started on the bread doughs. She loved being in the kitchen at such an early hour, the heavy quiet and the dark outside. At around five thirty she put a tray of cherry
Similar Books
