The Baker's Wife (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
andhiswife) wrote2021-07-10 07:24 pm
andhiswife) wrote2021-07-10 07:24 pm
Entry tags:
Just a Little Bent
As far as Darrow antics go, this one might top the list for bloody eeriness. At the cottage, they can almost pretend nothing's happened. Between the garden, the chickens, and the staples she always keeps well-stocked, there's no immediate threat of starvation. The power hasn't failed yet, but even if it does, she thinks they'll be able to work around it — neither she nor Anne are exactly accustomed to being without it anymore, but that doesn't mean they've forgotten how to get by.
And surely things will go back to normal sooner or later. They always do, and she refuses to believe that—that whatever this is might be special in that regard.
But it's still unsettling. Even though it only seems to be the locals who have vanished, there were always far more of them than anyone else, and never has she felt the difference so keenly. Whole blocks are abandoned, shops either permanently shuttered or, more often, left unmanned mid-shift: the lights still on, but no one at home. But what she hates most are the littler signs of lives abruptly interrupted. A lone briefcase sitting at a bus stop; half-drunk beverages glued to their coasters by dried condensation; shopping carts left idle halfway down an aisle.
Regan is taking it especially hard, and no wonder.
It would be easier to avoid town entirely, and she'd be lying if she said she wasn't tempted. But she can't abide the thought of hiding out in the countryside when there are still plenty of people who need help. Not when her hands still remember how to feed a Village.
So she's stolen a bakery. Or, well... borrowed. She's borrowing a bakery.
It hadn't been hard to find. Even cleaning it up hadn't been too much of a challenge: people had already made off with the displays' contents, so there was little rotten food to be dealt with. Obviously there were no fresh ingredients worth salvaging, but things like flour, baking soda, and spices don't go bad overnight. There's plenty to start with, at least.
Getting the word out had been the bigger challenge. She's texted everyone she can, and Saoirse has made some very colorful signage to post in the bakery windows and in other places around the city, letting people know that there are fresh-baked goods available. She can't imagine charging for any of it, but after the first few hours (and some discussion with Anne), she'd added some signage suggesting that she wouldn't question where any raw ingredients might have come from, if people wanted to bring some.
It's mid-afternoon when she slides two more trays of muffins into the oven, sets a timer on her phone, and then steps out of the kitchen for some slightly cooler air. Her hair is falling out of its bun and she's probably a mess, but it's satisfying to see people eating something she made: something fresh and good that hasn't come from a bloody can.
[ooc: a mini-gathering for the vanishing NPC plot! If your pup knows Greta, you can assume they've received a text; otherwise, there's plenty of signage letting people know there's still one functioning bakery in town.]
And surely things will go back to normal sooner or later. They always do, and she refuses to believe that—that whatever this is might be special in that regard.
But it's still unsettling. Even though it only seems to be the locals who have vanished, there were always far more of them than anyone else, and never has she felt the difference so keenly. Whole blocks are abandoned, shops either permanently shuttered or, more often, left unmanned mid-shift: the lights still on, but no one at home. But what she hates most are the littler signs of lives abruptly interrupted. A lone briefcase sitting at a bus stop; half-drunk beverages glued to their coasters by dried condensation; shopping carts left idle halfway down an aisle.
Regan is taking it especially hard, and no wonder.
It would be easier to avoid town entirely, and she'd be lying if she said she wasn't tempted. But she can't abide the thought of hiding out in the countryside when there are still plenty of people who need help. Not when her hands still remember how to feed a Village.
So she's stolen a bakery. Or, well... borrowed. She's borrowing a bakery.
It hadn't been hard to find. Even cleaning it up hadn't been too much of a challenge: people had already made off with the displays' contents, so there was little rotten food to be dealt with. Obviously there were no fresh ingredients worth salvaging, but things like flour, baking soda, and spices don't go bad overnight. There's plenty to start with, at least.
Getting the word out had been the bigger challenge. She's texted everyone she can, and Saoirse has made some very colorful signage to post in the bakery windows and in other places around the city, letting people know that there are fresh-baked goods available. She can't imagine charging for any of it, but after the first few hours (and some discussion with Anne), she'd added some signage suggesting that she wouldn't question where any raw ingredients might have come from, if people wanted to bring some.
It's mid-afternoon when she slides two more trays of muffins into the oven, sets a timer on her phone, and then steps out of the kitchen for some slightly cooler air. Her hair is falling out of its bun and she's probably a mess, but it's satisfying to see people eating something she made: something fresh and good that hasn't come from a bloody can.
[ooc: a mini-gathering for the vanishing NPC plot! If your pup knows Greta, you can assume they've received a text; otherwise, there's plenty of signage letting people know there's still one functioning bakery in town.]
no subject
“It hasn’t been that much of a hardship, really, so far. The power’s still running, we can all communicate...and I’m exploring my artistic side, made some bread that looks like a leaf.” The question of what comes next is looming there, as it has been, but that’s not something any of them can deal with alone. “What about you, are you and John getting on all right?”
no subject
"Oh, very impressive," he notes, craning his neck to admire the leaf-loaf. It looks bloody delicious, and he catches himself hoping no one makes off with it before it comes time for him to leave.
"We're... all right," he says, lifting a shoulder. It's true enough. This whole situation may be rather difficult for him personally, but that doesn't feel worth going into. And his unique experience aside, it's not as if this is any less difficult for anyone else. "Making do. Really grateful to have friends who are good at this sort of thing. If we were really on our own I figure we'd just be eating out of cans by now."
He hesitates, feeling a bit wrong-footed, like he's disrupting the work flow by just standing here amid the relative bustle, but then he remembers himself and reaches into his bag.
"I, erm... I brought some sugar." He lifts the rubber-banded, mostly full package out and offers it. "I figure you already have plenty of this sort of thing, but I didn't want to come empty-handed, so..." They've got enough in the sugar bowl for him to make his tea how he likes for a while yet, and if this situation persists beyond that, well... there'll be bigger problems.