Mrs. Butcher’s Bakers Dozen

“Today is the 17th,” said Ms. Butcher as she tore off the 16th to reveal the 17th on her daily efficient quotes calendar. Today’s read:

“Efficiency is the state or quality of being efficient.”

-Beverly Butcher, Cleaning Service

Underneath this was written "" circled in black felt-tipped marker which was the most efficient way to write “VACATION.” This year’s vacation was efficiently scheduled just in time for her to volunteer for the Annual Orphan Bake Sale.

Mrs. Butcher pre-heated the Rädsla brand oven to 667 degrees before she pulled ingredients from her Rädsla brand fridge. Butter, flour, molasses, sugar, eye of newt, cinnamon, and clove.

A mysterioso pizzicato echoed through the kitchen as the backdoor burst open. Mrs. Butcher’s eyes cut close and then zoom into the door. There is a chicken standing framed in the open doorway.

Mrs. Butcher hiked up her apron and bore down on the chicken. She bopped it on the head with her antique Brazilian rosewood and stone rolling pin. The chicken clucked, cocked its head, and laid three dozen eggs.

“Moo,” says a cow. She nudges a bottle of freshly churned butter toward Mrs. Butcher’s feet.

Mrs. Butcher mixed and kneaded the dough, spread it flat, and cut out the little gingerbread boys and girls. She placed two dozen on a tray and put the tray into a birdcage and put the birdcage into the oven.

Mrs. Butcher did not need to set a timer. She would be home precisely in time to take the gingerbread children out of the oven and so she made her way to the farmer’s market and directly to Mr. Fox’s Mysterious Boxes and Fresh Never Frozen Rocket.

“Reynard, do you have any,” Mrs. Butcher was quickly interrupted by Mr. Fox.

“All out today, ma’am,” said Mr. Fox.

“And what about those,” Mrs. Butcher pinched her fingers.

“Out of season,” said Mr. Fox.

“And,” Mrs. Butcher coughed.

“I can’t believe you would even ask,” said Mr. Fox.

“Okay then, just twelve and a half olives and one magic lantern,” Mrs. Butcher.

“New or oak barrel aged?”

“It’s for the orphans,” smiled Mrs. Butcher and took the oak barrel aged.

When she returned home the scent of gingerbread was wafting comically out the window, waving Mrs. Butcher inside.

She pulled the cookies out of the oven and set them on a rack to cool. She gave them cinnamon eyes, licorice smiles, and anatomically correct sprinkles. It was less than a minute before the first cookie sat up and rubbed his eyes. He blinked and took one look at Mrs. Butcher and said,

“Run, run, fast as you can, you,” and he abruptly stopped as Mrs. Butcher grasped his crisp cookie head and snapped it in one quick movement. One after the other she let them wake and then snapped their little cookie necks. She crumbled their remains into a bowl and set it to the side.

Mrs. Butcher pulled out the oak barrel aged magic lantern and, with her best pocket tissue and her many years of cleaning experience, she gave it a shine to perfection. With a crack of lightning and the spontaneous combustion of a tesla an iridescent plasmic genie erupted from the spout of the lantern.

“Who has awoken the,” and he abruptly stopped as Mrs. Butcher bopped it on the head with her antique Brazilian rosewood and stone rolling pin. The genie fell to the counter in a lump and Mrs. Butcher quickly began to knead the lump into shape adding the cookie crumbs, a pinch of salt, and a stick of butter. She set it in the window to rise while she watched season one of Hatters Gone Mad: Live.

The clock screamed a blood curdling scream when the dough was ready and Mrs. Butcher cut it into thirteen individual loaves. She stamped them with the Butcher family seal, a rubber stamp, right on the top center of each loaf.

They cooked just in time for Mrs. Butcher to pull them out of the oven, wrap them in little bows and bowties, and drive them to the orphanage.

“Mrs. Butcher,” said the ungodly tall orphanage headmistress. She reached out a bony arm and clasped her long, pointy, nails against Mrs. Butcher’s as they shook hands.

“Mrs. Headmistress, the thirteen loafs I promised,” said Mrs. Butcher.

“Bless you, my dear. Last year your Gingerbread Man Bread brought in five new orphans."

“Anything for a good cause,” said Mrs. Butcher.

"It’s been getting more and more difficult to keep this place going with so few orphans these days.”

The clock on the wall cooed like a peacock.

“Would you look at the time,” said Mrs. Butcher, “ over. Time for me to get back to work.”

THE END