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“Then let’s get the ingredients unpacked and set up our workstation,” Ben said. His voice felt rough with emotion. “As you’re the project manager,” he said to Theo, “you delegate the chores.”

“Sure!” Theo beamed proudly and told Ben he was in charge of cutting, peeling, and anything to do with prep that Maggie needed while she concentrated on the baking.

“And you, young captain.” Maggie looked at Theo with an indulgent grin. “What is your task?”

“I’ll help both you and Grandpa wherever I’m needed,” Theo answered.

“Well, then.” Maggie started unpacking the bag of groceries she’d brought, placing a large bag of plump red cranberries on the counter beside the mixing bowl. “Let’s get baking.”

The trio set to work. Maggie measured fresh milk, melted butter, and orange juice into a glass pitcher, while Theo carefully scraped bright orange zest into a small ceramic dish. Ben reached for the heavy five-pound paper sack of white flour, setting a silver measuring cup beside the bowl.

Ben leaned closer to the recipe card, squinting at the faded blue ink in the bright fluorescent light. The numeral before the fraction was smudged with an old grease mark, making the measurement look like “five and a half cups.”

“Five cups seems like a substantial amount of flour for a single loaf pan,” Ben noted aloud, leveling off his fourth heavy scoop into the galvanized bowl.

Maggie turned from her pitcher, looking over at the mounting white hill inside the metal bowl with a sudden, doubtful frown. “Five cups? Are you sure about that?”

“The card says five,” Ben insisted quietly, dumping a fifth overfilled cup of white flour on top of the pile.

Theo, eager to speed up the process, grabbed the electric hand mixer from the wooden rack. Before Maggie could reach out to check the speed setting or secure the plastic bowl guard, Theo plugged the cord into the counter outlet and flipped the power switch directly from off to high speed.

The dual steel beaters whirled instantly at the highest level, plunging straight into the center of the dry, five-cup flour mountain.

A massive white explosion of flour erupted from the metal bowl like a volcanic cloud. A dense plume of fine white powder shot upward into the air, completely covering the stainless steel worktable, the recipe card, and the front of Maggie’s yellow apron. Ben caught the brunt of the storm directly in the chest, his dark wool sweater, and most of his face, his eyebrows turning instantly stark white.

Theo stood frozen on his wooden stool, holding the humming mixer in the air, his eyelashes and paper hat coated in a thick layer of white flour.

Silence descended over their table for two seconds, followed by a sudden burst of hearty chuckles from two women at the neighboring pastry station.

Ben stood motionless, staring down at his white-dusted hands before looking across the flour-covered table at Maggie. A stray patch of white powder sat right on the tip of her nose, her dark hair dusted like a winter pine tree.

Maggie looked at Ben’s white eyebrows, her lips twitching once before she let out a loud, uncontrollable laugh that echoed off the church hall walls. Ben joined her with a deep, rumbly laugh of his own, the boisterous sound shaking his broad chest as he took a cotton towel to wipe his face.

“Well,” Ben said dryly, dusting a handful of flour from his wool sleeve onto the floorboards. “I believe we’ve successfully pre-sifted the flour.”

After they managed to clean up and get the flour quantity right, it seemed as if only minutes had passed when the head judge announced the countdown. Ben pulled on a pair of thick padded oven mitts, stepping over to the stainless steel oven door. Hot air rushed out as he swung the door wide, filling the air with the rich, sweet aroma of toasted butter, warm citrus, and baked cranberries.

Ben reached into the oven cavity, carefully pulling out their single loaf pan. The cranberry-orange bread had risen nicely around the edges, its top baked to a deep chestnut brown with bright red cranberries bursting through the crust like little rubies. The loaf was almost perfect with only a slight slump on the one side.

Ben set the hot aluminum pan onto a wooden trivet on the counter. He stood back, resting his mittened hands on his hips as he examined their mouthwatering creation with an amused smile.

“It’s not exactly perfect,” Ben observed teasingly. “But it sure smells great, even if it is a bit tilted on one side.”

Maggie leaned over the table, using a folded dish towel to fan the steam away from her face. Her white-dusted hair had been smoothed back, though a faint smidgen of flour still lingered on her sweater. “I think it shows character,” she countered cheerfully, her eyes bright as she smelled the orange zest. “The crust looks perfectly baked, and the cranberries didn’t sink to the bottom of the pan. That counts as a victory in my book.”

Theo climbed up onto his step stool, peering down into the pan with intense concentration. “Do you think it’s going to taste as good as it smells?”

“It’s going to taste incredible,” Maggie assured Theo, using a thin butter knife to gently loosen the edges of the bread from the tin. “The sweet orange syrup balances the tart berries, and the extra flour gives it a sturdy frame.”

The timer on the commercial oven buzzed with a sharp, metallic ring, cutting through the chatter of the hall, and five minutes later, the head judge of the bake-off came down the center aisle of the hall. Mrs. Gable, a tall woman with silver hair who had judged the town’s holiday baking contests for twenty-five years, carried a wooden clipboard in one hand and a tray of satin ribbons in the other. She stopped at each station, tasting a tiny slice of loaf bread and writing neat numbers on the page.

When she reached the Foster Woodworks table, Mrs. Gable paused, her eyes dropping to the slightly lopsided loaf resting on the cutting board. She adjusted her reading glasses, looking between the sloped bread and the trio standing behind the table.

“Well, now,” Mrs. Gable said, her sharp tone softening into a fond smile. “This is certainly a unique structural design. But the aroma is mouthwatering.”

Ben cleared his throat, taking a step forward. “We had an unexpected flour event during the mixing phase. The structural integrity was compromised early on.”

Mrs. Gable picked up a small wooden knife, slicing off a thin piece from the higher side of the loaf. She placed it in her mouth, chewing slowly as the entire table held its breath. A moment later, her eyes widened slightly, and she gave a slow, appreciative nod.