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When Batterby-by-the-Bay’s beloved sourdough starter vanishes, ten-year-old tinkerer Juno and best friend Tariq team up with a prickly lighthouse keeper, a humming whisk, and a gull named Button. Their foam-filled chase into a celebrity chef’s floating stage becomes a hilarious quest to bring Grandmother Bubbles home.
Dawn bounced off the waves like a dropped stack of shiny plates, and the gulls of Batterby-by-the-Bay screamed their opinions about breakfast. Juno tightened the last tiny bolt on her latest invention, a tinny saucer with three spatula-blades and a whisk-shaped tail. She had named it Flip, which seemed fair because that was the only thing it was supposed to do: flip a pancake, fly it back, and not crash into Mr. Puddle’s cat. Flip trembled in her hands with a hopeful whirr.
“Okay, Flip,” Juno said, pushing a curl under her cap. “Gentle lift, turn, return. Please don’t throw the pancake at the postman again.”
Her best friend Tariq stood to the side holding a bowl of batter and making a face like a careful librarian. “It did not throw the pancake at the postman,” he said. “It delivered it with urgency.”
“Same difference.” Juno scooped batter onto her training griddle. The smell rose, warm and vanilla, with a tiny whisper of lemon. The whole harbor smelled like that every summer, when the fishermen washed their nets and the festival banners went up. This year’s StackFest flags flapped above the pier: syrup-brown, butter-yellow, and a suspicious shade of glittery gold.
Juno slid the pancake onto Flip. “Go!”
Flip lifted neatly. The pancake wobbled like a jellyfish but stayed on. Flip hummed over a crab trap, around a coil of rope, past Mrs. Chen’s produce stall—and tipped. The pancake took off like a frisbee and landed on Mr. Puddle’s cat with a damp fwop. The cat sat, outraged, then dignified, then decided to eat the pancake off its own back. It was the kind of town where that seemed normal.
Tariq pinched the bridge of his nose. “We need more stability. A fourth rotor. Or fewer cats.”
“Cats are nonnegotiable,” Juno said, snatching Flip from the air. She patted its swivel-plate as if it were a nervous bird. “You did fine. We’ll adjust your tail. No more jellyfish wobble. Maybe a fin.”
“You’re talking to it,” Tariq said.
“It listens.”
A brass megaphone voice bellowed from the town square. “Attention, Batterby-by-the-Bay! Mayor Blot here! Six days to the StackFest! Keep your spatulas polished and your elbows buttered!”
“Does he practice saying things like that?” Tariq asked.
“Yes,” Juno said. “Into a mirror.” She glanced at the poster nailed to a piling. A man with a hat high enough to need a lighthouse grinned out from soft-focus lighting. CHEF MAGNIFICO! LIVE ON THE BAY! it said. Beneath, in small print: Featuring The Grand Big Batter Stunt!
Juno wrinkled her nose. “He looks like a fancy toothpick.”
Tariq read the small print aloud. “Special guest: a surprise from the heart of Batterby tradition.”
Juno set her jaw. “That would be Grandmother Bubbles. If he touches the starter, I’ll solder his hat to a pelican.”
“Please don’t,” Tariq said. “Pelicans would file a complaint.”