“I hate when the cookies stick, Ma, you know that.” Anna sifted more flour onto the wooden table that doubled as a workspace. She loved flour and she used it liberally, but it did make cleanup much harder.
The bakery wasn’t large and it wasn’t bright; the windows were high up, just below the ceiling eaves. Anna had to squint to see her measurements. Spoons and pots hung on the walls, and the large wooden table stood in the middle of the room, where Anna and her mom baked bread, cinnamon rolls, and Anna’s famous cookies. The majority of the bakery was taken up by the cast-iron stove. It was as beautiful as it was functional, and Anna was constantly tripping over it—or falling into it, hence the small burn marks on her forearms. Those also came from paddling the bread into and out of the oven. Her parents said she was the best at knowing when the temperature of the stove was just right for baking the softest bread. Maybe she was a little messy when she baked, but it didn’t bother her. She lifted her sifter again, and flour flew through the air, making Freya sneeze. “Sorry!”
“Don’t apologize,” said her aunt as she pulled out her handkerchief. Anna noticed it had the Arendelle crest embroidered on it.
Anna dropped a large ball of dough onto the table, then took another fistful of flour. “I just love to watch flour fall. It reminds me of snow.”
Freya’s blue eyes dimmed. “Do you like the snow?”
Anna patted the flour onto the dough, then used her rolling pin to flatten it. “I do! We get a lot of it up here in the mountains, obviously, and I’ve always been fond of ice-skating, playing in the snow, and making a good snowman.”
“Of all your cookies, this has always been my favorite,” her aunt said, staring fondly at the tin snowman cutters on the table. “When did you start making the snowmen? Last year?”
“Yes.” Anna held up a cookie cutter. “I feel like I know him. Not know him know him, but I’ve seen him before.”
“How so?” Freya asked.
The snowman in her mind’s eye always had a large bottom, a smaller middle snowball section, and an oval head, with two twig arms. She liked him to have a carrot nose and three coal buttons, with royal frosting. He looked happy and friendly. “I see him in my dreams. I kept drawing him over and over again, so finally Papa said he’d make me a cookie cutter that resembled him. I make so many cookies now that Papa’s had to make dozens of cutters. We sold out of the cookies yesterday. Who knew this many people liked snowmen in the summer?”
Her aunt smiled. “I’m happy to help you make more cookies. I enjoy watching you work. Your mother is right—you’re a wonderful baker.”
“Anna created the recipe for this dough herself,” her mother said proudly.
“Did you?” Freya asked.
Anna nodded. “I like to experiment. I’ve picked up my mother’s love of baking.”
“I see that.” Freya watched Anna carefully use a knife to lift the snowmen off the table and place them on a baking sheet.
Anna looked up. “You never told me how everyone liked the sirupskake.”
“It was splendid!” she said, her smile returning. “Your fa—my husband asked that you bake another one soon for me to bring him.”
Freya was always tripping over her words like that. Anna did the same thing herself. She chalked it up to wanting to say so much in a short amount of time. She was like a pot of melting chocolate: the words bubbled over.
“Did he like the candied oranges I placed on top?”
“Yes! He said he’d never seen it done that way before.”
Anna shrugged. “I love to put my own spin on recipes. I like to be unique, if you haven’t noticed.”
“I have.” Freya smiled. “I think my husband would enjoy meeting you. You and I have a similar joyful spirit, while he”—she sighed—“carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, I’m afraid. Much like my daughter.”
Freya talked about her daughter a lot but unfortunately never brought her along for visits. From what Anna knew, the girl seemed whip smart and serious. Anna wished she could meet her so she could shake her up a bit. Everyone needed to let their hair down sometimes. Plus it would be nice to have a friend close to her own age.