Nina Crumb and the Seaside Syrup

Every morning in Pebbleport began the same way: gulls argued on the pier, boats clinked their ropes like chimes, and the little bell over Grandma Luli’s bakery door went dingle-ding the instant she turned the sign to Open. Nina Crumb woke to all of it at once. The room above the bakery smelled like butter and sunshine. She rolled out of bed, pulled on her flour-dusted hoodie, and clattered down the narrow stairs two at a time.

“Morning, batterbuddy,” Grandma Luli said, already whisking. Her hair was a cloud under a scarf with cherries on it. “Festival in three days. We’ll flip so many pancakes the gulls will learn to say ‘thank you.’”

“Some of them already say ‘mine,’” Nina said. She peeked through the window. Sir Honks-a-Lot, the bossiest gull, stood on the rail like he owned the bay. Across the lane, a shiny new sign glared: CRISP’S PREMIUM PUFFS. Beneath it, Mr. Zedekiah Crisp preened his mustache. It looked like it could poke holes in balloons.

Nina tied on an apron. Batter poured like a satin ribbon, and the griddle hissed. The first pancake bubbled perfectly. Nina flipped it with a proud flick; it landed with a happy flop. Customers wandered in—a fisherman with hands like rope, a nurse in squeaky shoes, two kids from the pier band carrying a dented trumpet case.

“News says the Pancake Parade will be grander than ever,” the fisherman said. “Your syrup, Luli, could make an anchor float.”

Grandma Luli winked. “Seaside Syrup is our pride. It’s my mother’s secret. Only this old book knows the whole of it.” She patted the fat, blue recipe book resting on the counter like a sleepy cat.

The bell dinged again. The room filled with cinnamon steam, laughter, and the salty breeze that slid under the door. Nina’s shoulders loosened. This was the safest place in the world.

Then the oven coughed.

It wasn’t a polite little ahem. It was a wild, clattery HHRRMMMPH that rattled pans and made the spatulas shiver. A puff of sooty breath blew across the floor like a grumpy dragon’s sigh.

“Don’t you start,” Grandma warned, poking the oven with a wooden spoon. The oven wheezed, flickered, and went out. The griddle sizzled less and less. The batter looked confused.

Nina bent down. “Maybe it’s just the pilot—” She twisted a knob. The oven gave a rude burp and a tiny puff. “Okay, rude.”

Mr. Crisp’s laugh floated through the open window. “Trouble, Luli? Perhaps Pebbleport needs modern equipment.”

Nina stuck her tongue out at the window frame, which was very brave of her since Mr. Crisp could not see it.