The Laughing Loaf of Crumbport

Every morning in Crumbport, the seagulls announced sunrise like alarm clocks with feathers. They clattered across rooftops, arguing about bread crusts and dropped chips, while the ocean breathed in and out against the harbor wall. Inside Aunt Petunia’s bakery, everything breathed too—ovens sighed, proofing baskets exhaled warm vanilla-scented air, and the jars of spices whispered when the door slammed and shook the shelves.

Milo wiped flour from his eyebrow with the back of his hand and left a bright white streak like a pirate’s scar. He was ten, officially “assistant baker,” unofficially “taster-in-chief,” and eternally curious. He had curly hair forever dusted with powdered sugar, a grin that came easily, and an apron covered in protective doodles—thumbprint stars and a stick-figure dragon that Aunt Petunia said brought good luck.

“Don’t forget the giggle-twists,” Aunt Petunia said, swishing past with a tray of cinnamon knots. Her cheeks were rosy and her hair had escaped its bun in curls that smelled faintly of orange peel. “If we start the morning with grumpy buns, the whole town gets sneezy.”

“I gave them extra sugar,” Milo said, peering into the oven. “They’ll be positively giggling.” He swung the oven door closed and winced when it wheezed a small cough and shot out a smoky puff that smelled like a toast party. “Excuse you,” he whispered. The oven coughed again, kinder this time, like it had remembered its manners.

Outside, a brass band tuned up—honking, squeaking, thunking—because today was not just any morning. Today was the Puff Parade, when rolling floats shaped like pastries trundled through the streets, confetti flew, and someone always got whapped in the face by a baguette baton. For as long as anyone could remember, the parade started at noon, precisely when the bakery unveiled the Laughing Loaf. It wasn’t just delicious. It actually laughed. Last year it had giggled so hard it shook the mayor’s hat right off and scared a dog into doing a spectacular backflip.

“Is the recipe ready?” Milo asked, trying to sound casual and not like his stomach just did a cartwheel.

Aunt Petunia patted the counter. “Recipe book’s here, dear heart. And our chuckle-yeast is… in the pantry?” She glanced at the door as if she could see through wood via pure will. “Make sure he’s in a sunny mood.”

“He?” Milo cocked a brow.

Aunt Petunia’s mouth twitched. “Yeast is lively. If you treat him like a grump, he treats you like a brick.” She winked. “Stir with kindness, laugh with your dough, and your bread will rise like a kite.”

Milo nodded solemnly, grabbing a wooden spoon like a knight takes a sword. He pushed open the pantry door. A cool wave of clove and lemon peel breathed out, and jars peered down like round-eyed owls. The shelf where the chuckle-yeast usually dozed was ready with a folded towel and a scribbled label: “Bubbles—do not jostle.” The jar, however, was not ready. Or rather, not present at all.