Evangeline Gearheart's Journal Entry #30

Once the half‑loaves found their audience, the shop felt a little less lonely. Not bustling — not yet — but alive in a quiet, steady way. People came in for their half‑loaf every two or three days instead of once a week, and that alone changed the energy of the place.

But Evangeline knew she needed something savoury.Something warm.Something that wasn’t bread but lived in the same comforting universe.

She thought of the campfire snacks she’d grown up with — cheese melted on bread, cheese tucked into dough, cheese crisped on the edges of a pan.Simple.Rustic.Comforting.

So she began experimenting.

The first batch used mild cheddar. Too mild. It melted beautifully but tasted like nothing.

The second batch used extra‑mature cheddar. Too sharp. The flavour overpowered the dough and left a tang that lingered longer than she liked.

She tried Red Leicester.Too soft — it melted into orange puddles.

She tried Wensleydale.Too crumbly — it refused to incorporate.

She tried a blend of cheddar and mozzarella.Too stretchy — the texture was wrong.

She tried a smoked cheddar.Too smoky — it tasted like a bonfire had fallen into the dough.

Her notebook filled with notes:

• Mild cheddar: invisible.

• Mature cheddar: too bossy.

• Red Leicester: puddles.

• Wensleydale: chaos.

• Mozzarella blend: stringy.

• Smoked cheddar: campfire in a bad way.

But she kept going.

She adjusted the ratios. She folded the cheese in differently.She tried grating it fine, then coarse, then mixing the two. She tried adding a pinch of smoked paprika. A whisper of mustard powder. A touch of cracked black pepper.

And then — finally — she found it.

A blend of two‑thirds mature cheddar and one‑third Red Leicester, grated fine, folded gently into the dough, with a dusting of paprika and a pinch of mustard powder.

The result was perfect.

Golden. Soft inside. Crisp on the edges. Cheesy without being overwhelming. Comforting without being heavy.

She baked a tray, set them on the counter, and watched them disappear one by one.

Builders bought them. Teachers bought them. Teenagers bought them. A woman on her lunch break bought three and ate one before she even left the shop.

The campfire cheddars became her first true savoury success.

And around that same time — as if the universe wanted to reward her persistence — she found the easel.

It was leaning against a skip two streets over, half‑buried under a broken laundry basket and a stack of old magazines. A children’s easel, wooden, scuffed, one leg slightly wobbly.

But she saw potential.

She dragged it home, cleaned it, sanded it, tightened the screws, and painted the frame a warm berry‑red. When it dried, she wrote in looping chalk letters:

Fresh Today: 70/30 Half‑Loaves Campfire Cheddars Warm Bread at Noon

She set it outside her shop.

And people noticed.

The easel became her silent herald — a little red beacon calling out to anyone who passed.