The kitchen didn’t just smell like spices; it smelled like treachery. Arthur Thorne, a baker with a temper shorter than a sourdough starter, stared at the tray of Hot Cross Buns before him. He had spent twelve hours meticulously hydrating the dough, sourcing currants from a specific hillside in Greece, and piping the flour-paste crosses … Continue reading The kitchen didn’t just smell like spices; it smelled like treachery.