Measure

Can't Be Tamed // Miley Cyrus

Chapter 1

The heat never ceases to irritate me. The steam of the large oven wafts into the kitchen as I pull yet another batch of bread from its depths. I stick out my bottom lip and attempt to blow a wayward frizz of curls out of my face. It never works. The curls are forever tickling my skin.  If it wasn't for the heat, and the constant dusting of flour over my entire body—and the early, early mornings—I might actually enjoy the solitude of the bakery. Being alone in the building for several hours each morning is the only benefit to this horrendous job.

There are days when I despise my life. My sister, Ellete, the older of the two of us, has never taken notice of the labor involved in running this bakery. Her only interest is looking perfect at all times and flirting with the eligible male customers. Not that it matters. Ellete would most likely burn each and every loaf of bread she attempted to bake had my father ever bothered to train her in the art of the kitchen. Father has been wrapped around Ellete's finger as long as I've been alive, falling for her doe eyes and pitiful simpering anytime he suggests such a thing as laboring over dough in the hot kitchen.

"All right, my dear," he would concede. "Your skills are better suited at the front of our shop anyway.  The townsfolk have taken quite a liking to you." Then my father would pinch Ellete's cheek, give her a wink and send her back to her preferred position: charming the customers.

I shouldn't complain about her. It's not her fault that she was Father's delight and I was Mother's little shadow. We'd chosen those rolls naturally, an extension of our personalities. She does her best when she so desires. I wish she'd desire more often.

I wipe the sweat from my brow and continue measuring the ingredients for the next batch of bread for today's sales. The shop will be opening soon and customers will be clamoring for the first batches of the day. Ours isn't the only bakery in town, but it is known as the best, I must admit. My father, Clarus, has earned a reputation for the freshest bread in town, making our loaves the best sellers. The demand is high; therefore I spend most of my life in this hot dungeon.

Father is not only a dedicated baker but also a tinker of sorts. Years ago, attempting to ease our workload, he designed and built a massive brass oven unlike anything this town or any baker has ever seen. While the rest of the bakeries still rely on brick ovens to bake one or two loaves at a time, my father's masterpiece, when at full capacity—which is nearly always—can bake up to ten loaves to perfection. A system of pipes and steam valves pushes the heat evenly around the dough causing it to rise and crust on the edges, yet remain flaky and soft at the same time. For miles around, The Charmed Crust is known as the bakery with bread so good it is magical.  However, I sometimes wonder if our success is curiosity swirling from the rumors about us, as much as the bread itself.

The backdoor creaks open then slams shut, forcing a groan from my mouth as I knead the sourdough. I give the substance an additional punch of frustration. My solitude has been spent too quickly, frivolously. I feel the grimace forming on my face, not yet emotionally ready to deal with my whirlwind of a sister.

"It is so hot in here!" Ellete cries, already fanning her face from the heat after only seconds in the kitchen. I, on the other hand, have been working in the stifling heat for hours. "You really should prop this back door open for some relief, Daralis."

Stealing a glance at my sister, I spy the perfectly crisp blue linen day dress matched with Ellete's always fashionable blonde curls. Ellete never breaks a sweat or, heaven forbid, gets a speck of dust on her precious clothing.

"And draw all the animals directly into the kitchen? You know it's hard enough to keep them away from the day old breads we have to throw out." I remind my sister. She hates wildlife ever since she was chased by a gaggle of geese one early morning. This may also be why she refuses to help me with morning duties.

Ellete scoffs, "That wouldn't happen if you made a better estimate of how much bread you should bake each day. Honestly, sometimes I think you just over bake because you like being in here so much."

Now it's my turn to scoff, "Yes, this is my favorite place to be, so glamorous." I gesture to my smock, covered in flour, then pull at one of my disheveled curls. Ellete gives me the once over and shrugs, not saying another word about my time spent here. I don't dare protest her judgment too strongly, however, not wanting any more scrutiny on my baking practices than necessary.

My reasons for over-baking are mine alone, and something that I do sparingly in an attempt to avoid suspicion.  What my father and sister don't know, I certainly am not going to tell them. Although it appears Ellete has noticed more than I'd hoped. She's actually quite observant, much more than she lets on.

"Where is today's first batch?" Ellete calls from the front of the store. I take a deep breath, not wanting to start a fight so early in the day. There is plenty of time for the inevitable verbal squabbles we'll get into. I'm tired of my sister's need to be pampered, knowing at this very moment Ellete is leaning over the display case, picking dirt from her nails, rather than putting out any effort to walk the ten steps to the kitchen and gather said batch of bread. I feel my jaw clamp together at the image. I don't believe she means to press me so often. It's a natural biproduct of our opposing personalities, unfortunately. I need to work harder to temper my bitterness. But it would be nice if she worked harder in general.

"Back here, Ellete. Ready for you to put them on display." I try to speak with as much patience as I can muster, but the effort is in vain as the words fly out of my mouth with a snap.

"My, my. Someone's grouchy this morning," Ellete says as she finally walks over to the basket of bread, which I've kept warming by the oven.

"It's nearly my lunchtime, remember. Someone has to be the early riser." I do a better job of keeping the snap out of my voice, still kneading the next batch. Admittedly, the act of pushing and punching the pliable dough is soothing my frustrations, thankfully.

"Father will be here soon to take over in the kitchen." Ellete's voice sounds sympathetic for once. "Then you can take a nap so you'll be less cranky for the evening rush."

So much for sympathy although I don't desire any. I manage just fine, even though I now loathe the hours I spend in this kitchen.

Growing up, I always wanted to be in this bakery. I knew I was good, perhaps even rivaling my mother's skills. It was no secret that my father intended for me to take over entirely at some point in time. The bakery was a place of joy for me, full of love and happiness.

But that was before, long before when my mother was still with us.  Since she's been gone, the bakery is now a symbol of strife, of a broken family.  And no matter what Ellete thinks, no nap could cure that level of crankiness.

Before I can reply to Ellete's suggestion, Father indeed arrives. Entering through the back kitchen door, as Ellete had, carrying a large empty tray.

"Ah, daughters! A glorious day it is indeed," he cheers as he sets the tray aside. I watch as he moves through the kitchen he loves, noticing the stoop to his back, earned from years of bending to tend bread in the oven. His hair has thinned, and he's not light on his feet by any means.  There's a ghostly pallor to his skin. Too many days spent in the depths of this kitchen.

My father looks over at me, asking, "Have you prepared the loaves for Mrs. Naimer's delivery?"

"Of course I have, Father. I still don't understand how you can be in her presence without snapping." It takes every ounce of restraint I have to keep my eyes from rolling back into my head. I lift the trays of fresh bread intended for Mrs. Naimer's order, shocking myself by even saying a word about her.  The mayor's wife, also known as the town's busy body, is always in everyone's personal affairs and spreading the rumors to anyone who would lend her their ear for an afternoon. I have no love for that woman, not after the lies she spread about my mother.

"She is our best customer. I cannot allow what's past to strain our business. Besides, she's done nothing but speculate about the possibilities, as have we all." My father's voice is quiet as he replies, causing me to regret even mentioning the situation. Why can't I control my tongue?

"Of course," I say somberly, handing the bread to my father. We share a look, one that tells me Father still hurts, longing for Mother to return. My heart pains as I look away first.

"Father, let me deliver the bread to Mrs. Naimer. I've been meaning to pay her a visit," Ellete interjects with her singsong voice. The light returns to Father's eyes as he looks over at his precious girl. 'Paying a visit' means gossiping about potential suitors. Mrs. Naimer will more than likely keep Ellete for tea in order to fill her head with romantic nonsense. I have neither the time nor any desire for such talk. Especially not with Mrs. Naimer.

My father looks at his eldest girl, never able to deny her requests. "As you wish, my dear." He hands Ellete the tray of bread, still warm and covered with cheesecloth to keep it fresh. She leans in to kiss his cheek and then bounces out the front door of the shop.

"Alas it appears that you've earned a break from baking," he says as I open my mouth to protest what is no doubt coming next. "You take the front of the shop, and I'll continue with the next batch." I cringe at his direction. The front of the shop is worse than the heat of the kitchen.

After our tense exchange over my mother, I'm hesitant to argue with my father's order. Resigned to dealing with townsfolk, I wipe my hands on my smock and smooth back my wayward frizz. If I'd known I would be dealing with the public I wouldn't have worn the brown sack dress I threw on in the wee hours of the morning. Knowing there's no hope for my appearance, I make my way to the front of the shop and unlock the door. A few regular customers are already waiting and enter immediately. I attempt to greet them but none of them look my way. The hustle of the day has begun.

Thank you so much for reading! This story is being revised and edited as I am rapid posting over the next two months. Rest assured, it is already complete so you won't have to wait for the ending. I always welcome reader comments, questions and suggestions because your feedback helps make this story even better.

Song of the section - Can't Be Tamed because as you may have noticed, Daralis is untamable.

https://youtu.be/nE4RxbcLPGs

Thank you again for being here! I appreciate you more than you can imagine.