The Tine of the Hay Rake

After Removing her baking from the oven, the lass-in-line to inherit the farm breakfasted on mint soup and toast rubbed with garlic and then dressed before setting out to Suriola early that morning. Spruce and tidy, she took a corn-coloured napkin—smelling of bleach and green apples—out of the wardrobe and wrapped it around the glistening coca. Whenever she baked, she’d cook a sweet one almost the length of palm. People said she was a dab hand at making her family’s favourite afters and she made sure they had good reason to say so[…]