Evangeline Gearheart's Journal Entry #32

The idea for the coconut minis didn’t arrive as a flash of brilliance.It arrived as a quiet dissatisfaction — the kind that only a baker notices, the kind that whispers, this isn’t it yet.

She’d wanted something soft and gentle for winter mornings, something pale and fragrant and comforting. So she began with what she knew: a simple enriched loaf, scaled down to miniature size. She warmed regular milk, whisked in sugar, melted butter into it, and folded it into a small dough.

The minis baked up golden, their tops shining faintly where she’d brushed them with butter.

They looked perfect.

But when she tasted one, her heart sank.

Not wrong. Not bad. Just… ordinary.

The crumb was soft, but the flavour was flat. The sweetness didn’t bloom. The texture didn’t melt. It didn’t have the tenderness she imagined — the kind of softness that sighs apart on the tongue.

She tore off another piece. Still wrong.

She wrote in her notebook:

“Milk‑based minis: fine but forgettable.Not what I’m reaching for.”

She tried again the next day. More sugar. Less sugar. More butter. A touch of vanilla.

Still wrong.

It wasn’t until she stood in the shop one quiet afternoon, staring at the cooling rack with a sense of mild frustration, that her gaze drifted to a tin of coconut milk on the shelf — something she’d bought weeks ago for a chocolate experiment she never finished.

She picked it up. Shook it. Listened to the soft, creamy slosh inside.

And something clicked.

Coconut milk wasn’t just milk. It was richness. Softness. Warmth. A gentle sweetness that didn’t shout.

But this time, she didn’t reach for flour to make a dough.

She reached for a mixing bowl.

The Batter

She whisked coconut milk with sugar until it dissolved. She folded in melted butter. She added eggs one at a time, watching the mixture turn glossy. She sifted in flour — just enough to give structure, not enough to weigh it down. She added shredded coconut for texture. A touch of vanilla. A whisper of salt.

Then she whisked. And whisked. And whisked.

Until the batter turned thick, pale, and airy — the consistency of mousse. Soft. Billowy. Almost trembling.

She spooned it into mini loaf moulds, smoothing the tops with the back of a wet spoon.

The Bake

As they baked, the tops rose gently, doming into soft golden curves.

The scent was delicate — warm coconut, vanilla, a hint of butter.

Not loud.

Not demanding.

Just… comforting.

When she pulled them from the oven, they looked like tiny clouds.

She let them cool.

Sliced one open.

The crumb was tender, almost custard‑soft, flecked with coconut.

It melted on her tongue.

This — this — was what she’d been reaching for.

She wrapped them in parchment, tied them with twine, and set them on the counter.

They didn’t sell out instantly.

They weren’t dramatic.

They weren’t flashy.

But they sold steadily.

Quietly.

Lovingly.

A woman bought one every Thursday “for my afternoon tea.” A man bought one for his mum. A teenager bought one because “it smells like holidays.”

The coconut minis became a gentle favourite — the kind of bake people didn’t rave about loudly, but returned for again and again.

The Ginger‑Molasses Rounds

Next came the ginger‑molasses rounds — a recipe she’d carried in her memory for years, waiting for the right moment.

She wanted something dark. Something soft. Something that tasted like winter evenings and old stories.

She mixed molasses into the dough, watching it swirl like ink.

She added ginger — fresh, ground, crystallised — until the scent filled the kitchen.

She rolled the dough into balls and pressed them into coarse sugar, letting the crystals cling like frost.

When they baked, they cracked beautifully on top — little fault lines revealing the soft, fragrant interior.

People loved them. Loved them in a way that surprised her.

A man bought six and said, “These taste like my gran’s kitchen.”

A woman bought four and said, “These taste like winter.”

A child bought one, took a bite, and whispered, “It’s like a hug.”

The ginger‑molasses rounds became her winter anchor — the bake that made people smile even on the coldest days.

The Yule Hand Pies

As the nights grew longer and the streetlamps glowed earlier, Evangeline felt the familiar pull toward Yule — that deep, old‑world instinct to offer warmth, sweetness, and something festive to carry people through the cold.

Hand pies were the obvious choice.But not just one kind.Not a single “seasonal flavour.”Yule demanded abundance.Yule demanded choice.

So she made two distinct sets, each with its own personality.

The Mincemeat Hand Pies

These were the traditional ones — dark, rich, and deeply spiced.

She made the pastry herself, folding cold butter into flour until it resembled snowflakes. She chilled it, rolled it thin, and cut perfect circles.

The filling was classic mincemeat:citrus peel, raisins, currants, apples, warming spices, and a whisper of brandy.Dark.Glossy.Festive.

She spooned it into the pastry, folded the circles into half‑moons, crimped the edges, brushed them with egg wash, and sprinkled them with coarse sugar.

When they baked, the scent was unmistakable — the smell of Christmas markets, old kitchens, and winter evenings wrapped in blankets.

People who grew up with mincemeat lit up when they tasted them.People who didn’t grow up with it became converts.

They were small, warm, nostalgic parcels of Yule.

The Festive Apple Hand Pies

The second set was lighter, brighter — a different kind of celebration.

She peeled and diced apples, cooked them down with cinnamon, nutmeg, brown sugar, and a touch of lemon zest. The filling turned soft and golden, fragrant and comforting.

She used the same delicate pastry, but shaped these slightly differently — a little rounder, a little plumper, like tiny snow‑dusted pillows.

When they baked, the scent drifted into the street like a story — warm apple, butter, spice, and sugar caramelising on the edges.

Children adored them.Adults bought them “for later” and then ate them immediately. A man bought one of each and said, “This is Christmas.”

Two offerings. Two flavours. Two ways to celebrate Yule.

And Evangeline, standing in her little shop with flour on her hands and the scent of apple and spice in the air, felt something settle inside her.

Her shop wasn’t just surviving. It was becoming.

A place of comfort. A place of warmth. A place where winter felt gentler.

Timekeeper’s Treats / Frontier Bakehouse is a real place — and everything you’ve just read is something you can taste.