from the Apron Strings Collection
They say she lived at the bend in the road before the village learned to straighten out.
Her windows were always lit, her clock always wrong, and her kitchen smelled like something worth forgiving.
She baked by feel, not formula — a handful of this, a whisper of that, a good dash of nerve.
Her recipes were never written to impress; they were written to comfort.
A pot of tea, a scandal retold, a cake that collapsed and still got praised.
The neighbours called her Granny Crookfold because nothing in her life was square — not her walls, not her grin, not her morals when it came to butter.
If she lent you sugar, she’d expect gossip back.
If she caught you sulking, she’d hand you a scone and tell you to “cheer up or rise flat.”
Her notebook — the one tied with string and speckled with treacle — is the heart of Apron Strings.
Half spell, half survival guide, it’s filled with small acts of courage disguised as cake.
She believed every loaf had a soul, every spill told the truth, and every woman deserved the full measure of her own making.
“It’s not just a recipe,” she wrote once beside a smudge of cocoa,
“It’s a lesson in not pretending you’re less than you are.”
So here they are — her stories, her sweets, her reminders to live generously and stir with intent.
They’re a little crooked, always kind, and best enjoyed warm.
Because Granny Crookfold knew what most of us forget:
The best things rise when you stop measuring.