Myra
The kitchen was no longer a bakery; it was a theater of war, and I was the director.
I stood at the central stainless steel island, my legal pad pinned under a bowl of salt, checking off the workflow I’d mapped out. MacKenzie was proving to be a godsend. While I had expected a teenager with a short attention span, what I got was a human calculator.
"Twenty-four ounces of flour, six ounces of cold cubed butter, four teaspoons of baking powder," I called out, my hands already moving to prep the lemon zest for the next batch.
MacKenzie didn't hesitate. She moved between the scales and the bins with a quiet, intense focus that reminded me of myself at that age. "Measured and ready, Myra. Do you want the heavy cream chilled or at room temp for the scones?"
"Chilled," I said, offering
