baker of Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“My husband Fritz and I bake for the town. Lord knows I spend half my life kneading dough and the other half brushing flour from my skirts.”
Things Kethe Christman had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at None
I dropped my mother's carved bone thimble in the mud of the weavers' row while delivering bread. Lord knows I have searched the ruts a dozen times. Fritz says the thimble is gone and crying over it will not bake the loaves, but my heart is heavy.
Nota scribaeShe wept while dictating, smudging the ink.
the Tuesday after Ascension, at Vespers
Lord knows I am grateful for a solid timber roof, but the shouting from Hans's tenement is enough to deafen a saint. Clara Kramer is yelling about the rain on her washing again. I wish she would just buy some shingles and patch it.
Easy for you to say with your warm hearth and your rich husband! That miser Hans left us to rot.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
We baked a hundred white loaves for the feast. Flour gets into my eyelashes and my skirts, and I am forever brushing it away. Adelheid Schumacher was waving some petition about, but Lord knows we haven't the time for such foolishness.
It isn't foolishness to demand the bailiff act against landlords who take our groschen and give us rot.
Nota scribaeDictated at the bakery door. The woman smelled strongly of yeast.
the eve of St Gregory, at Terce
Mary Weaver took a fine bundle of goose quills from Madlen Braun before Lent and still has not returned them. Lord knows it's hard enough making a living without neighbours pocketing your tools.
Aye, she's a thief! Just like whoever took the bone die I rightfully won from Sebastian.
You didn't win it, Madlen, it was stolen to begin with.
the day after Candlemas, at Compline
It has been three winters since the fever took my mother, Margaret. I lit a candle for her. Poor Lucy Baker was standing in the street wailing over her sister Lene again today. I know the pain of losing kin, but her crying wearies my soul.
My sister is out there in the burnt lands! How can you be so cold, Kethe?
I fetched water for the dough, mother. You can rest now.
Nota scribaeWritten hastily as the bells were ringing.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
The ovens need tending, Kethe. Someone will find it or they won't, but the town still needs feeding.
I'll keep an eye out in the muck, Kethe, if I ever finish trying to keep my own floor dry.