The Baker's Grand Bread Suit: A Puddington Pie Tale
Once upon a time in the whimsical village of Puddington Pie, where cobblestone streets were flanked by cottages that looked like confectionery delights, there lived a most peculiar baker named Bertrand Bibblebuns. Now, Bertrand was not your ordinary baker. Oh no, for he believed wholeheartedly that the secret to sumptuous sourdough and perfect pastries wasn't in the ingredients, but in the antics.
Every morning, as the rosy fingers of dawn caressed the sleepy village, Bertrand commenced his ritual which was to be, without exception, absurd. He would don his flour-caked apron, plop a colander on his head for good luck, and begin the delicate process of serenading his dough.
"Oh, my doughy delight, robust and white,"
"Rise up, stretch out, get ready to bite!"
This song would carry through the streets, tickling the ears of the townsfolk and luring them towards the scent of fresh bread like charmed serpents. This morning, however, the village was in for a treat - or perhaps a trick - that none would forget.
Bertrand, in his infinite wisdom, had decided that the bakery needed a mascot; a character that would encapsulate the essence of Puddington Pie's most beloved establishment. "It must be grand," he mumbled to himself, "It must be grandiose!" And so, Bertrand set to work on what he believed would be his pièce de résistance.
Oblivious to the chuckles of his neighbors, he began crafting a suit made entirely out of dough. Yes, a suit of bread! With starchy slacks and a billowy baguette beret, he painstakingly baked each piece to a golden perfection before sewing them onto a fabric suit with licorice lace.
"A touch of icing for buttons," he declared, "and raspberry jam for pinstripes!" Sharply dressed in his ensemble, he resembled nothing more than a walking, talking, gingerbread man.
When Bertrand finally stepped out, chest puffed with pride and flour, the village did not quite know how to react. Old Mrs. Figglewatts, who was perched atop a ladder pruning her petunias, gaped with such intensity she nearly toppled over. The children playing hopscotch stopped, mid-hop, their eyes wide as saucers. Bertrand paid them no mind, and instead, started a jaunty stroll down the street.
The sun beat down, quite intense for a spring morning. Bertrand, absorbed in his own display, failed to consider one critical flaw in his plan: bread, especially when fresh from the oven, is not known for its cooling properties. With each step, his starchy suit began to wilt under the heat, and it wasn't long before the aroma of freshly baked bread turned into the smell of overdone toast.
"Bertrand,"called out Tom the tailor, once he managed to pull himself together from a fit of sniggers,
"You're baking in that suit! Literally!"
But our intrepid baker wouldn't hear of it. "It's the smell of success!" he bellowed back, doughbosom heaving.
Children started to orbit around him, as children are want to do, their giggles crescendoing into peals of laughter. The spectacle caused such a commotion that the mayor peeked out of his office window, his monocle dropping in shock. "What on earth is Bertrand wearing?" he gasped.
Before long, the heat took its ultimate toll, and the jam began to run, the icing buttons dripped like melting snowmen, and suddenly Bertrand was less a dapper dough-man and more a parody of a Picasso painting. His perfect attire morphing before the eyes of Puddington Pie's residents.
The mayor, determined to restore some order, stepped out and adjusted his monocle with as much dignity as he could muster. "Bertrand!"
he called, clearing his throat, "One must, ahem, dress for the weather, mustn't one?"
The baker stopped mid-stride, his suit now slumping into shapes that defied description. Past the embarrassment, he let out a great, hearty laugh that shook his belly like a bowlful of jelly. "Indeed, Mr. Mayor, indeed! It appears my suit is more fit for eating than greeting," he declared with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
And with that, the children swarmed him, plucking bits of sweet, baked fabric and feasting upon his failed fashion piece with delight. The adults soon joined in, chuckling and indulging in the peculiarity of nibbling on Bertrand's attire.
By the afternoon, Bertrand was back to his usual, flour-dusted self, sans the baguette beret and licorice laces. The village resumed its idyllic pace, but not without the echo of laughter that rumbled like distant thunder. From that day on, Bertrand Bibblebuns' bakery was not only known for its sourdough serenades, but also for the legendary Great Bread Suit Feast. A story residents of Puddington Pie would tenderly knead into their lore for generations to gleefully consume.
