The Apple Pie Afternoon

The kitchen smelled of apples and cinnamon, and Yens was busy sliding the pie into the stove, trying not to burn his paws. He leaned in carefully, squinting at the fire and shifting the pan just a little to make it sit even.

Behind him, Spinny had climbed onto the counter with the flute Yens had carved some time ago. He gave it a testing squeak, and the note was so sharp and sudden that Yens nearly dropped the pie.

“Spinny…” Yens muttered, steadying himself, “Pie first, flute later. In that order.”

But Spinny had already started a tune, bright and a little wobbly, tapping his legs on the counter in rhythm. The bag of flour wobbled with him, then tipped over with a soft thump. A puff of white dust filled the kitchen, drifting everywhere.

Yens coughed, waving his paws in front of his face. “Wonderful. Now it’s snowing indoors.”

Spinny squeaked in delight, looking rather like a frosted blackberry, and kept on playing.

By the time the pie was ready, the whole kitchen was covered in a fine powder, and Yens set the pie on the table with a sigh of relief. He poured himself a coffee and looked around at the mess.

“Pie, music, flour, crumbs… I suppose that’s today’s recipe,” he said.

Spinny squeaked, hopped into a chair, and played a finishing note on his flute as if declaring the chaos a masterpiece. And Yens, eating warm apple pie through the drifting flour haze, had to admit - it really was.