09/12/2026
The Night Before the Market
’Twas the night before Market, and all through the house,
Not a baker was resting, not even a mouse.
The counters were covered, the kitchen snow-white,
And the Dough Dealer whispered, “We’ll bake through the night.”
Eighty pounds of flour went flying through air,
Coating counters and aprons and dusting our hair.
Twelve pounds of brown sugar went into the fare,
Eight pounds granulated soon followed it there.
Six cups of buttermilk poured smooth and thick,
Three quarts of heavy cream disappeared mighty quick.
Then twenty-four eggs were all cracked with great care,
And seven pounds butter joined everything there.
There was cinnamon, cloves, and sweet nutmeg to spare,
With allspice and cardamom scenting the air.
Dark molasses flowed slowly, rich, fragrant, and low,
As the mixer kept turning through batch after dough.
Sun-dried tomatoes and basil went in,
Then pickles and dill joined the savory spin.
There were jalapeños and cheddar piled high,
And Havarti and dill w**d kept passing us by.
Then garlic came next with a generous hand,
Black sesame, white sesame joined in the plan.
Every bowl, every pan, every tray found its place,
While a fine dust of flour still covered the space.
The ovens kept humming, the timers kept ringing,
The mixer kept turning, the Dough Dealer singing.
There were loaves on the counters and rolls stacked up high,
While the hands on the clock just kept slipping on by.
But tucked in each batch, where the recipe ends,
Are a few little secrets we don’t tell our friends.
A dash and a sprinkle, a touch just so light,
Of magic we’re keeping well hidden tonight.
For tomorrow is Market, when neighbors draw near,
Bringing stories and laughter we’re grateful to hear.
They’ll choose something special and carry it home,
A loaf for the table, a treat of their own.
For that’s why we bake through the long, busy night,
Why we measure and knead till each loaf feels just right.
It’s more than the butter, the flour, and dough,
It’s feeding the people we’re grateful to know.
And when Market is over, our tables picked bare,
We’ll head home bone-tired, still dusted with flour.
Yet our hearts will be full as we turn out the light:
Happy Market to all,
and to all a good night. 🥖❤️
