Grandmother's Approval

The scent of freshly baked bread, blessedly free of any metallic tang or ethereal shimmer, filled Elara’s small kitchen. It was a comforting, familiar aroma, a stark contrast to the recent olfactory assault of volatile glitter and panicked baking. Her grandmother, a woman who’d weathered more storms than a lighthouse keeper and possessed a laugh that could curdle milk or soothe a savage beast depending on the occasion, sat at the head of the worn oak table, a teacup cradled in her arthritic hands. Elara, still sporting a faint dusting of edible glitter on her cheek, recounted the entire, utterly absurd saga.

“And then,” Elara explained, her voice a little breathless, “the starter, which I’d named Bartholomew, mind you, Bartholomew the Ancient and Glorious, just… erupted. Not like a normal, gentle rise, Nana. This was a Krakatoa of iridescence. Glitter went everywhere. The mayor’s toupee, the town hall’s flagpole, Mrs. Higgins’ prize-winning poodle… I swear I saw a pigeon sporting a sequined tail feather.”