Pumpernickel Mouse

Pumpernickel Mouse had eleven brothers and sisters, who worked day and night to fill the bellies of Mouse Town with sweet, juicy fruit pies. Each morning they filled the shelves and display cases of their little pie shop. Each evening the mice floured and rolled and basted and baked until the shop was filled with the smells of caramelized peaches and buttery crusts. 

Pumpernickel Mouse wasn’t allowed to flour, or roll, or baste, or bake. He wasn’t allowed to measure. He wasn’t allowed to stir. In fact, it was preferred that he didn’t go in the kitchen at all. Instead, he took out the trash. He scrubbed the dishes. He gathered hickory logs for the oven. Most importantly, he stayed out of the kitchen. Pumpernickel did the small, ugly tasks nobody else wanted to do. He didn’t want to do them either, but more than anything he wanted to feel useful.

Pumpernickel had one thing his siblings didn’t, which was his name. He was named after his grandfather. He was proud of his name because a long time ago, Grandfather Pumpernickel opened a pie shop in a burrow under an apple tree. The mice of the town hurried through that round yellow door each day for a freshly baked slice of pie, and it had been that way ever since. Sometimes the story went that it was a gooseberry pie, or maybe it was a cherry? Sometimes the story even said that the mice baked things besides fruit pies. But nobody could remember, because it was a long time ago.

Unfortunately, the only thing Pumpernickel Mouse inherited from his grandfather was his name. He could not bake pies. When he tried, the filling would curdle or the crust would burn. He would put salt instead of sugar, or hot peppers instead of cinnamon. So Pumpernickel kept to the shadows while his brothers and sisters floured and rolled and basted and baked, and he hoped one day he could make something too.

In the spring, the mice went to town and returned with baskets filled with cherries, blackberries, and lemons. In the fall, they chopped sour apples and stalks of rhubarb. And when the snow began to fall, the mice would pull cans of fruit preserves from their storeroom. Pumpernickel watched the bustling lobby from the window of his wash room. As he scrubbed dishes, he was grateful for the warmth and laughter that filled the burrow. To him, the cacophony of voices was what made the pie shop feel like home.

One day in Deep Winter, the mice huddled by the oven for warmth and waited for the bell to jingle. But when the customers came, bundled in heavy cloaks and mittens, they frowned.

“We are tired of fruit pies,” they said. “Haven’t you anything else?” 

But the fruit pies were all the mice had, so the customers left.

The mice looked at one another. There was a great pause. Then, they grinned. “A break!” they cried in relief. They locked the front door and turned off the oven. 

“Wanna play cards?”

“Let’s build a snowman!” 

“Can I just take a nap?” 

Pumpernickel didn’t want to do any of those things. He wished that the pie shop would open again, and that the customers would return. As it was, the burrow felt sad and empty.

He began to think to himself. He thought and thought, scratching his fuzzy chin. He wondered, “What if we didn’t sell fruit pies? What if we sold something else?”

Pumpernickel decided to go to town. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but imagined returning home with arms full, his brothers and sisters praising him. “Why didn’t we think of this?” they would exclaim. “You’re a genius, Pumpernickel! This will change everything. Quick, get it in the oven! Tell everyone in town! Oh, thank you Pumpernickel!”

When he arrived, he found the snow-dusted cart of a traveling salesman sitting in the square. 

“Excuse me,” Pumpernickel squeaked to the salesman. “My family owns a pie shop. Do you have anything interesting?”

“Take a look,” the salesman said.

Pumpernickel sifted through jars of apricots and pouches of dried persimmons. He dug through a spice drawer that smelled of freshly crushed cloves. He was nearly ready to give up when he saw something out of the corner of his eye.

It was buried under a box of silver flatware, some tools, and a stack of Mice Almanac. His breath catching, Pumpernickel removed the items and looked down at his prize.

A GUIDE TO COCOA, the title of the book said. Well, if you wanted to call it a book. The pamphlet was thin, maybe only thirty pages in length. It was faded, limp from the cold, and had been doodled on with coloring wax. An illustration on the front cover showed a group of people laughing, each holding a cup with a squiggle of steam drawn above it. 

Pumpernickel stared at the image. Cocoa. He had never heard of such a thing, but it seemed wonderful. He imagined the pie shop filled again, customers chatting amongst themselves with merry hearts.

“Ah, hot cocoa!” the salesman interrupted his thoughts, tapping the image. “What a perfect treat for a cold winter’s day. You make that, and your pie shop will be the talk of the town!” 

Pumpernickel was sold. He paid the salesman, and along with the pamphlet bought something called cocoa powder, which the salesman said was necessary.

Pumpernickel dreamed of hot cocoa as he hurried home. He pictured himself sitting on the pie counter, pouring from a wooden ladle. “We’re sorry for ever doubting you,” his brothers and sisters would say. “You’re the cleverest baker of all!” 

When he returned to the burrow, it was quiet.  Pumpernickel knocked the snow off his hat, set his coat on the hook, and peeked into the kitchen. It was empty. He pulled a stool up to the counter, washed his hands, and then carefully placed the pamphlet in front of him.

A GUIDE TO COCOA. He opened the book and flipped to the page. The page number was easy to remember because it was page nine, and he was almost nine years old. After finding it, he beamed. This was it! Hot cocoa! The one that would change everything!

But as he looked down at the recipe, a shiver went up his spine. 

They were the most complicated instructions he had ever seen.

Pumpernickel stared and stared at the page, but the more he looked at it the less sense it made. He turned the book sideways and crossed his eyes, but nothing he did made the words clear to him. He was stuck.

Hot tears formed in Pumpernickel’s eyes. What was he playing at? He didn’t know what he was doing. If he couldn’t make something as simple as a pie, why should he think he could make something completely new?

Pumpernickel stepped down from the stool and crumpled the pamphlet into a jagged ball. Just as he was thinking about throwing into the fire, his brothers and sisters returned to the burrow. 

“We were skiing!” the mice exclaimed, cheeks red from the cold. “We wanted to invite you, but you weren’t here. Where did you go?” 

“I went to town,” Pumpernickel said, looking down at his shoes. “I found a new recipe, but I can’t read it. I’m useless.” 

Pumpernickel tugged the pamphlet apart until it was mostly flat again, and showed it to his brothers and sisters. They gasped. 

“Don’t you know what this is?” they asked.

“It’s a recipe book,” he replied.

“It’s not just any recipe book,” they said. When he looked up, he could see they were smiling at him. “Look at the name. It's a Pumpernickel Mouse. You’ve found Grandfather’s lost recipes!”

They pointed to the front cover. There it was, in small letters he hadn’t noticed before:

BY PUMPERNICKEL MOUSE

“You’re not useless,” his brothers and sisters said. “And, we’re sorry for treating you poorly. You might not be a good cook, but that doesn’t matter. You’ve done something even better! Now we can make all of the recipes in this book, and it will be because of you!”

The mice poured in around Pumpernickel, hugging and congratulating him. They clapped his back and placed a large white hat on his head. Then, they got to work. They whisked and measured, and not long after they had successfully made hot cocoa. They topped their steaming cups with freshly-cut marshmallows and sweet whipped cream, and when the mice had tasted their creation, they cheered again.

Outside of the pie shop a banner was hung which said: HOT COCOA by PUMPERNICKEL. Meanwhile, the mice studied the pamphlet and wrote a new menu based on all the recipes they found: chocolate cake, chocolate fudge, chocolate ice cream, chocolate pudding, and even chocolate pie.

The burrow was soon full again. As before, the mice floured and rolled and basted and baked. The front bell jingled and customers shared stories by the fire as they waited for the ground to thaw. Sure, a fruit pie was occasionally sold. But the most popular treat was the one called hot cocoa, which Pumpernickel was even allowed to stir.