Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKABYG8FGBNA1C95CT5CMCG

It smells like Christmas exploded in here. I overdid the cinnamon for courage. Courage for what, the mayor's pecan critique? For this: "Return what you borrowed or the oven sleeps." It was under the pecan twists. That's dramatic. Since when do ovens nap? Since someone finds the gas shutoff. Let me see. Gazette letters, green ink dots, and—smell that? Rosewater. Rose keeps a bottle by the scones. And this pistachio crumb—Turkish delights day. Mister Hale bought those. He left fast when I mentioned Beatrice. Beatrice, as in your sourdough starter? People think I stole hers from the old inn. I didn't. Someone wants my ovens dark for Friday market. Or wants a clear shot at the blueberry crostata trophy. We stake out tonight. Better: leave a decoy jar labeled Beatrice on the back rack and watch the front in the pie-case reflection. With the bell unlatched and the mixer unplugged. And a fresh tray of cinnamon knots—bait for the nose and the conscience. If their conscience doesn't bite, the knots will. Shh. Hear that? The bell? It's not even seven. Then our midnight just came early.