Florence Baker Novels & Stories

He asks me as he is trying to figure out the dish with the ingredients in front of him. “A chocolate pie ball.” I mumble, making him purse his lips. “Let me guess, you came up with this idea?” “Yes, I am going to revolutionize the bakery industry and sell million-“ “How about we start with you learning how to bake a simple pie?” He asks me, making my shoulders slump. “How do you always manage to take the fun out of everything?” I ask him as I lift the giant bag of flour. “How do you manage to never do anything normal?”

She knew it was a lie even as she pulled the flour down at 5 AM on her second morning in Dominic Cross’s penthouse, unable to sleep, unable to stop replaying the sound of his voice through the intercom—stay, and I’ll tell you. She hadn’t stayed for the kitchen. She’d stayed because she had nowhere else to go. The butter was European. Unsalted, high-fat, the kind that turned croissants into something religious. She cut it into cold slabs and started the laminating process—fold, roll, quarter-turn, fold again—and her hands remembered what the rest of her had forgotten. That she was good at something. That before Marcus made her quit, before he told her that baking was a hobby and not a career

“Baker.” His cute face scrunches, lines appear on his smooth forehead and my heart does a flip. I should ask Mum if she’s truly done with child bearing, I want a younger brother. I love my big brother. He tries his best to stay in touch with me but it feels like I’m an only child sometimes. “Huh?” Asher asks. “What’s a baker?” “Baker is what you call someone who makes cake. A person who bakes,” I explain. “A chef is someone who cooks.”

I chuckled under my breath; it reminds me of my Nanna whenever I sneak to steal cookies. I’ve loved baking since childhood, learning from my grandmother after my mom died when I was thirteen. My Nanna’s (grandmother) cinnamon-scented kitchen shaped me, and even after she passed two years ago, my love for baking pushed me forward. I trained at the Culinary Institute of America and now run my bakery, Butter & Bloom, in Los Angeles, dreaming of expanding one day. Mrs Whitfield’s son extends his right hand towards me, drawing me back to the present.

"Honey, you are going to have to call me Edith if you don't want to call me mom." She blushed and bit into her delicious pastry. "This is good mom. Did you bake it?" "No Barbara Annette did." Barbara Annette inclined her head in Ashleigh's direction. "Barbara Annette has her own bakery shop and is a real pastry chef." Another woman scowled playfully. "I still make the best berry cobbler." Barbara Annette bristled. "That is not an authentic cobbler." The women bickered back and forth while Ashleigh watched and ate her pastry. She drank a glass of milk and then helped to crack about a hundred eggs.

When Don saw Phelan, his eyes burned with hate. He bellowed—a sound that was somewhere between a yell, a moo, and a really loud belch. “Hey, Phelan,” She then shouted back. “Didn't I kill you already?” He pounded his fist into the dress she wore, and it crumpled like aluminum foil. A few dracaenae threw flaming javelins at her. She knocked them aside. A hellhound lunged, and she sidestepped. She could have stabbed it, but She hesitated. “This is not Mrs. O'Leary”, Don said to himself. This is an untamed wolf. It will kill me and all my friends.

Shanaya: Life is like a crumble cake. He he you must be wondering why am I describing my life as crumble cake . Well I am pattisier and I observe things just like I observe desserts and guess what it works I love to do so. My desserts are never disappointing be it, mousse cake, lemon tart and yeah my personal favorite brownie. I have been working as a pattisier in my mother's cafe, she has passed away an year ago but handed over the legacy to bring happiness with the help of my desserts.

Chester looked intimidated by the batters before him, making me laugh a little. The poor giant I thought. He seems like an okay guy, plus it’s kind of funny seeing the giant scared of the dough and batter. “It’s a lot more fun than it looks, I promise.” I held out my hand. “I’m Melody.” “Chester.” He grabbed it and shook. His hands were warm and callused. I began working with him by showing how to bake the batter for the petit fours. He was a quick learner, and soon enough, I left him be to get the rest of it baked as I prepared the fillings for the cannolis, cream puffs and eclairs, and the petit fours.