baker of Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“I bake the bread for this street and measure every penny, though a woman cannot do her best work when her neighbours are thieves.”
Things Kvyetoslava Baker had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday before Ascension, at Prime
Lida Clark still has my heavy copper mixing paddle. I asked her again this morning when the bells rang, and she looked me in the eye and said it settles a debt for flour I never owed. Without it, my loaves are smaller. I keep my ledger straight, and I owe her nothing.
Nota scribaeDictated while pounding dough. She struck the table so hard the inkwell rattled.
the Wednesday of Easter week, at Sext
Doubravka Walker spent the morning weeping over a painted wooden bead from her late mother's rosary. I helped her look in the dirt for a bit, but told her straight out it is lost to the filth now. She had best just pray on her knuckles like the rest of us.
It was blessed by the fat priest at Saint James. You have a stone for a heart, Kvyetoslava.
the Monday after Laetare Sunday, at None
The flour is worse this year, full of grit, and the soldiers on the roads make the grain dearer than ever. It is hard enough to bake a clean loaf without grit when you are missing a fine brass sieve. I measure fairly, but the King's troubles are making my bread heavy.
Mein Gott, it is true. The millers are asking twice what they did last spring.
the Tuesday after Saint Gregory, at Vespers
Sovka Smith walked right past me at the pump and said nothing. She is acting like a stubborn child because I took poor old Yarka's side before the seamstress died of a chest chill. Sovka insulted her stitching, and Yarka cursed her. I have my pride too, and I will not speak first.
The old woman's seams were crooked and you know it. I am glad I do not have to listen to her gossip anymore.
Nota scribaeThe woman spoke loudly, making sure the blacksmith's wife across the yard could hear.
Candlemas, at Terce
I lent Marushka Mason my brass flour-sieve today to help her with a heavy batch of rye dough. It is a fine piece of work that keeps the grit out of the loaves. She had better not think it was a gift. Good tools cost good silver groschen.
I was certain you meant it as a kindness for all the help I gave you. You are too generous, Kvyetoslava!
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You forgot the two pecks of winter wheat you took before Martinmas. The paddle stays with me until the ledger is truly balanced.
Christ almighty, Lida, that wheat was paid for in groschen! Bring back my tool.