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Ten year old Leo loves cooking at his aunt’s diner, until a mysterious Advisor turns Puddleford’s food bland. With a talking cat, a pun loving friend, and enchanted kitchen tools, he quests for Laughing Yeast and Whispering Peppercorns to foil a flavor stealing machine and restore Soup Day with laughter.
On the corner of Maple and Second sat a diner with a teal door and a bell that sang a different note each time it rang. The sign said Juniper Spoon, but most folks just called it June’s. On a good day, the whole block smelled like tomato basil and fresh bread, and even the pigeons strutted as if they owned aprons. Leo Kettle, age ten, stood on a milk crate behind the counter, whisking pancake batter with the concentration of a scientist and the hope of a birthday wish. His hair was the color of toast when you forget it for a second, and he wore a towel like a cape because a towel is what a chef superhero would wear if laundry day came early.
Steam scribbled over the windows, drawing secret curly letters. Breakfast plates slid out like tiny parade floats. Aunt June moved faster than the bell on the door, her arms a blur of spatulas and smiles. Priya Patel burst in with a backpack that looked heavier than her and waved a flyer that flapped like a bird.
— Soup Day is in two weeks, Priya said, landing on a stool. — Do you think they will finally let you enter, Leo?
— I’ll be eleven next spring, Leo said, whisk tapping the bowl. — That is practically twelve. And twelve is almost adult. Aunt June says my soup face is very professional.
Biscuit, the diner cat, sprang up on the counter with the grace of a tiny tiger and the opinions of a stubborn mayor. He squinted at the batter as if trying to read it.
— You cannot read batter, Leo told him. — But yes, it says pancakes and it says patience.
Outside, little flags fluttered on the lampposts. Soup Day was the biggest thing in Puddleford, bigger than the Pumpkin Drop and even bigger than the Winter Sock Swap. Families set up stands, bands played happy tunes, and you could find soup in cups, bowls, mugs, and once in a hollowed-out loaf shaped like a shoe.
Leo added a sprinkle of nutmeg. Priya sniffed, eyes bright. Aunt June lifted an eyebrow.
— Just a whisper, Aunt June, Leo said. — It turns warm into warmer, like a sweater that remembers summer.
The bell sang a new note and Mayor Crisp waddled in, a tidy man with a tidy mustache. He waved stiffly, took his usual stool, and frowned at the chalkboard menu as if the letters owed him money. Aunt June slid a bowl of oatmeal over.
— Extra plain, Mayor, she said. — Just how you like it.
— Plain is dependable, he answered. — The town runs on dependable.
Leo tried not to make a face. He liked dependable door hinges and dependable shoelaces, but he held a private romance with flavor. He dreamed of a soup so good that people would stop mid-step, tilt their heads, and grin like they had just remembered a joke.
He did not know that by sunset, the town would taste like boiled socks.