Breakfast at Stephanie's by tom weston

Breakfast at Stephanie’s There is nothing in the world so bad as can’t be fixed by a freshly baked, blackberry pie. But can Stephanie, aged 11 (almost), add something special to the old, family recipe?

Illustration from “The Treatyse of Fysshynge with an Angle” by Dame Juliana Berners from The Boke of St. Albans, 1496

N the lower, gentler slopes of Brassie Bank stands the village graveyard; final resting place of those who lived before us. It also serves as the resting place, temporarily until they can regain their breath, of the many children who slide down to it from the steeper, higher slopes, on a toboggan in the snow filled days of winter, and from inside old, rolling, beer barrels for the remainder of the year. And I should mention that it also boasts of the finest, wild blackberries ever found this side of the mountain. Speculation abounds on whether to attribute the singular taste of these berries to the climate and soil, or to some contribution from the

Breakfast at Stephanieâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s permanent residents of the locale, but for me it is enough to say that I had never tasted finer. Stephanie de Baecestre, of the uncoincidentally named Baecestreâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Mill, had also never tasted finer, though in all fairness, at almost eleven years of age and with little travel beyond the confines of the village, she had limited experience of blackberries from other regions. As with many in the village, who through necessity, turned their hands to all manner of work, the de Baecestre family performed double duty as millers and bakers, and Stephanie helped, when school permitted, to sell bread and pastries from their shop in the village square, near the Green Dragon Tavern. This fine morning, Stephanie and her father, Jory, walked the path from the mill, down Brassie Bank, to Korkâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Pond, which adjoined the graveyard. On the way, they exchanged good mornings with old Widow Penrose, who labored in her garden and pulled at the weeds which encroached on her rosemary and thyme. The garden teetered on the verge of capitulation to the natural wilderness, as did the rickety cottage which stood in the garden. Even the elderly Widow Penrose, alone and frail, seemed destined to succumb to the

Breakfast at Stephanie’s same fate, as she knelt, almost hidden, amongst the tall, sturdy weeds. As one who had often endured a reprimand from her mother for failure to keep her bedroom tidy, Stephanie wondered at the rundown condition of the Widow Penrose estate, but she respectfully refrained from a direct enquiry. And so, as they continued their stroll down Brassie Bank, and beyond the distance at which Widow Penrose may overhear, Stephanie asked her father. “Why does Widow Penrose neglect her home so?” “The good widow no longer has the strength for the upkeep of the place, and she has no one else at hand.” “What about her friends and neighbors? Can she not call on them?” “I expect she could, but she is a proud and stubborn woman. A widow for many a year, and for many a year she has maintained a fierce independence. After her husband’s death, she swore that she would not become a burden to others.” “But a bit of gardening and some errands, and to fix that hole in her roof which I spied was being used by the squirrels for entrance to her attic? These are not burdens to a friend.” 3

Breakfast at Stephanie’s “As I said, she has her pride. Those that offer get rebuffed.” “She must be made to see before it is too late.” “It must come to a head sooner or later, but I pity the one who tries to take the good widow in hand.” “It makes me sad. Does she not understand that people would be happy to help? That not to allow them to help is rude?” “It’s not that simple. I didn’t notice you volunteer to help the widow. Now if you feel so strongly about it, why is that?” “Because it would be rude . . . Because I already have a lot of duties and my school work.” “And? . . . The real reason now.” Stephanie considered her answer. “And because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, I suppose. It can’t be easy on your own.” “No, it can’t,” agreed Jory. “But telling people what’s good for them is never easy either.” “If I was a wizard, I would just cast a spell and everything would be fixed.” “And if you could cast spells, we wouldn’t have to worry about food on the table. Come on, I have a fish or two to catch, and you have some blackberries to pick, before all the best ones are gone.” 4

Breakfast at Stephanie’s

I sat on the bank of Kork’s Pond with my good friend, Billy, and fished for bream, called snobs by the villagers, because of their upturned snouts. Stephanie and Jory fished beside us. Other villagers came and went. I didn’t run across Jory often. Work at the mill kept him busy, but even millers cannot live by bread alone, and as with Billy and I, he wanted a fish to augment the family dinner. Before you say it, yes, the fish market sells all manner of fish ready for the table, but they cannot compare to the taste of one caught by your own efforts, as the victor’s spoils from the battle between man and beast. Stephanie primarily came along to collect blackberries, but she seemed fascinated by the brightly colored lures and asked many questions about their construction and function, and why a man would favor one lure over another. “Snobs are a bit picky,” I said. “They prefer to snack at dawn or dusk, and the rest of the day they

Breakfast at Stephanie’s keep themselves hidden in the weed beds and rocks. But when they do eat, they’re partial to wax worms.” “Grasshoppers work best,” said Billy. “Aren’t grasshoppers too big for their mouths?” asked Stephanie. Billy pondered the question. “You got me there, young miss.” “Perhaps that’s why you haven’t caught anything all morning,” I chuckled. “I never took you for a fishing expert?” said Jory. “Here, let me set you up with a worm of your own and maybe you can catch dinner for us.” “Oh, no,” answered Stephanie. “Fishing is boring. I’m off to pick blackberries. “Grasshoppers work best,” joked Billy. “Don’t be so silly,” rebuked Stephanie. “Anyway, I’m going to pick blackberries and I’m going to bake some pies and in the morning, you can all come for breakfast.” “Thank you,” I said. “But tomorrow I’ll . . .” “Come to the shop to have breakfast,” interrupted Stephanie.” “But . . .” “No buts! If I make you a blueberry pie, it would be rude not to come and eat it.” 6

Breakfast at Stephanie’s “But . . .” “You wouldn’t want to see a little girl cry, would you? I’m only ten and three quarters.” “Alright, I’ll come for breakfast,” I conceded. “Good, and you too, Master Billy.” “I think I know better than to argue with you,” answered Billy. “Good, then I’m off to pick the blackberries.” Stephanie skipped away, up the short trail to the blackberry patch. “That’s quite a saleswoman, you’ve got there, Jory.” I said. “When she’s set her mind, you cannot argue with her,” sighed Jory.

The blackberry patch covered a large proportion of the lower half of Brassie Bank, and the brambles this time of year grew thick with ripe, juicy blackberries. Several other children already played eagerly (for they could not truly call it work when they enjoyed it so much). They hopped amongst the brambles, adeptly

Breakfast at Stephanie’s avoiding contact with the bushes’ tough, sharp thorns, as if by instinct. And for every blackberry destined for a jar or basket, another found its way to a child’s mouth. Stephanie joined her friends at the patch and began to collect her blackberries. As they picked, they played, told tales and jokes. Stephanie announced her plans to bake pies and she invited every child, along with their brothers, sisters, parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins, to breakfast with her at the shop. As they talked, the children determined that Stephanie intended to host a party which required an enormous quantity of blackberries for all the pies she planned to bake. So, they began to help her: one blackberry for their own baskets, one for Stephanie’s and one more still to eat on the spot. They just couldn’t help themselves, they found the fruit irresistible. Eventually, Stephanie rejoined her father at the Kork’s Pond, her basket weighed down with several pounds of blackberries, but the color of her lips told the story of the blackberries which did not make it to the basket. “That is a lot of fruit,” said Jory.

Breakfast at Stephanie’s “I don’t know if it’s going to be enough,” worried Stephanie. “Perhaps I should go back and pick some more?” “Enough for what? You have enough to feed an army.” “Well, I invited some more people to breakfast.” “How many? Your mother and I already have enough to do without . . .” “Oh, no, I’ll do it,” interrupted Stephanie. “It’s my idea and I shall bake all the pies.” “Just how many did you invite?” “I don’t know exactly, but only our friends, no one from outside the village.” “That narrows it down.” “Of course, if I did meet someone from outside the village, I would invite them too.” “Of course, but that still sounds like a lot of work. You’ll need some help . . .” “No, I will do it by myself. I must! I’ll bake special pies with a secret spell inside them. No one else can see.” “Back to wizardry now?” “Not a real magic spell, of course, but special just the same.”

Breakfast at Stephanie’s “Then we’d better get home. Seems you’ve got your job cut out for you between now and breakfast.” Jory held up the spoils from his battle with the fish. “Look, snobs for dinner.” Jory and Stephanie said their farewells. “Until breakfast then,” said a worried Jory. “Until breakfast,” Billy and I repeated. “Bring your friends,” said Stephanie. “Stephanie, don’t you think you’ve invited enough people already?” “Oh, sorry, I won’t invite anymore,” she apologized. “Except for those we meet on the way home.”

Immediately following dinner, Stephanie wanted to start the preparations for breakfast, but her parents insisted that all work should cease until after Stephanie had enjoyed a good night’s sleep. Stephanie obeyed, but as her head already swirled with breakfast plans, she found sleep neither good nor enjoyable, and at the earliest possible opportunity, she rose from her bed, dressed and began the task at hand.

Breakfast at Stephanieâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s She selected the finest eggs from the hen house and the finest flour to make the pastry. Then she chose the fruit, inspected each blackberry for ripeness and hue, rejected those she deemed unworthy, as if she selected diamonds to adorn a royal crown. Her parents turned out to help with firewood for the ovens and other such necessary duties, for which Stephanie expressed gratitude, for despite her earlier protestation that she would do everything single handed, she realized her boast came from unrealistic optimism. As the sun rose, and the villagers began to assemble, the aroma from the ovens foretold that the breakfast they would soon to enjoy may indeed prove more than ample reward for their early stirrings and disrupted schedules. I admit, I was skeptical that such a young girl, not yet eleven, could create such a culinary masterpiece. Stephanie declared the pies ready, hot from the oven, and at their peak of perfection. Several mouths, including mine, watered in anticipation. Would my taste buds celebrate or would my doubts overrule them? I was about to find out.

Breakfast at Stephanie’s Except that, it seemed, I was not about to find out! Neither were my fellow villagers. Stephanie forbade us to eat. “Not here,” she said. “We must go on a picnic.” She placed a pie in a basket and covered it with a checkered cloth, picked up the basket and headed toward the shop door. “Everyone pick up a pie and follow me,” she ordered. And so, we followed young Stephanie out of the shop, trooped by the Green Dragon and marched through the village streets towards Kork’s Pond and Brassie Bank. It must have looked a strange sight to any passing stranger, as if the villagers reenacted the story of that fellow from Hamelin, but with pastries instead of pipes. Nor did we stop when we reached Brassie Bank. Instead, Stephanie ordered us to follow her up the hill. I almost voiced a question here, and some low mumbles from my companions showed them in similarly spirits, but for now, we remained polite. When we arrived at the garden gate of Widow Penrose, Stephanie finally instructed us to halt. She opened the gate, walked up to the good widow’s door

Breakfast at Stephanie’s and knocked. Widow Penrose appeared and looked down at the young girl who carried a basket. “Stephanie?” she queried. Then the widow glanced up and saw the massed horde of villages who stood at her garden gate. “Stephanie?” she repeated, this time with a great deal more concern in her voice. “Hello,” said Stephanie. “We have come to breakfast.” “But?” started the widow. “I have brought you a pie. It’s a very good pie. The best one I’ve ever baked. Ever! You should eat it while it is still warm.” “But?” The widow glanced again at the villagers. “Don’t worry, I baked enough pies for everyone. We’re going to have a picnic.” “A picnic? Where?” “Right here. I thought your garden would be the perfect place for a picnic.” Widow Penrose looked around, somewhat confused and too embarrassed to make the obvious argument that her garden, with all its weeds and overgrown shrubbery, was certainly not the perfect place for a picnic.

Breakfast at Stephanie’s Stephanie noted the widow’s concern. “Oh, don’t worry, we won’t hurt anything. Okay everyone, let’s start the picnic before the pies go cold. Find somewhere to sit, but don’t break anything.” The villagers, at first hesitant, started to comply, as if Stephanie had indeed cast a spell over them. They looked around the widow’s garden and sought out places where they could sit and enjoy their pies. “Over there, just pull those weeds out and make room, no not the herbs. Can’t you tell the difference between rosemary and dandelions?” “That I can, Miss Stephanie,” said the Landlord from the Green Dragon. “But don’t be so quick to dismiss the dandelions, they have their uses.” “Sorry,” said Stephanie. “Still, to my eye, underneath these weeds lays a pretty patch of garden that wants to be useful again,” said the Landlord. “Just let’s have a bite of breakfast and me and the lads will set to with a bit of weeding and put this garden back to rights.” “Thank you,” said Stephanie. “Stephanie?” repeated Widow Penrose, who remained steadfast in her confusion.

Breakfast at Stephanie’s “Eat your breakfast, Mrs. Penrose. Oh, I expect everyone is thirsty. Can we have some water from your well?” “That well could use a fresh piece of rope,” noticed Billy. “That old one’s done for and won’t last much longer. After breakfast, I’ll replace it, and that bucket while I’m at it.” “No, er, that’s not . . .” Widow Penrose began to protest. “No, no, won’t take but a few moments,” insisted Billy. “Thank you,” said Stephanie. She looked up at the clear blue sky. No clouds spoilt the view in any direction. “Oh, I do hope it isn’t going to rain,” she mourned. “Don’t you worry about that Miss Stephanie, there’s no rain in this sky,” said Tim Woodright, a carpenter by trade, and a first-rate one, once apprenticed to a master craftsman, and now a member of good standing in the Guild. “Though if it did rain, I fear for the poor widow’s comfort, for I notice a hole in the roof that needs attention.” “No!” insisted Widow Penrose. “I have no means to pay . . .”

Breakfast at Stephanie’s “Let me eat this wonderful pie and I’ll soon have that roof in shape,” said the carpenter. “Don’t you worry about payment, good woman, it’s only neighborly.” And so, the morning went. The villagers ate their breakfast and then made light work of the several chores which demanded attention around Widow Penrose’s home and garden. The Widow protested to all who would listen, but they ignored her objections and set about their tasks with determination and good will. Before she knew it, her cottage roof once again possessed a water tight roof, her garden stood clear of weeds and the fence around it repaired, her well rebuilt with new bucket and rope, her windows washed, her floors swept spic and span, and the cobwebs brushed away. With all done and dusted, the villagers agreed that the Widow Penrose owned the prettiest and finest cottage not just in this village but in any village. I smiled at Stephanie. “This is what you planned all along isn’t it?” She looked at me and smiled. “But how will the Widow keep her new-found home? I don’t believe your trick would work too often.” 16

Breakfast at Stephanie’s As I spoke, the landlord from the Green Dragon approached Widow Penrose. ‘You have some fine herbs in your garden,” he said to her. “Yes,” the Widow agreed. “I think some of the magic that makes the blackberries grow so well lower down Brassie Bank reaches up to here. Alas, that also goes for the weeds.” “Would you be interested in selling your herbs to me?” asked the landlord. “They would make our tavern food even tastier than it is already.” “I fear I cannot keep the weeds away.” “How about in exchange for the herbs I should offer to send the lads up here regularly to tend the garden? Would that be fair and acceptable?” “It would indeed . . .” smiled the widow. “No, it wouldn’t,” interrupted Stephanie. “Shame on you Mr. Landlord, taking advantage of poor Widow Penrose.” “And what bargain would you have us strike, Young Miss?” asked the landlord. “In exchange for the herbs, you should tend the garden, and tend to any other little chores that might come to hand around the cottage.” “Oh, no, Stephanie . . .” started the widow.

Breakfast at Stephanie’s “I think that is agreeable to me,” said the landlord. “Provided the chores are no more arduous or timely than those we encountered today.” “Then it’s agreed,” said Stephanie. She looked at Widow Penrose for confirmation. “Agreed,” said the widow. Breakfast and chores over, the villagers went their separate ways. I walked with Stephanie and her family back down Brassie Bank to the shop, where I purchased more bread than I could have reasonably used, as did, I daresay, a great many other folk. “I spoke too soon when I said your trick might not stand a repeat performance,” I said to Stephanie. “I underestimated your cleverness.” “I don’t see what’s clever about helping your neighbor,” said Stephanie. “It’s just what’s right.” “But to get all these people together to help the widow . . .” “That was a coincidence. I just thought a breakfast picnic with my friends would be nice, that’s all.” “Coincidence?” “That’s all.”

Breakfast at Stephanie’s “I also underestimated your abilities as a baker,” I said. “That blackberry pie was by far the finest I have ever tasted.” “Thank you,” said Stephanie. I looked around the shop which now appeared empty of merchandise. “How generous of you to bake all those pies and gift them to the villagers.” “Oh, no,” said Stephanie. “The pies were not the gift; they were the lure.”