B
Barnaby was the best baker in the village. His crusts were crispy, his crumb was airy, and his sourdough... well, his sourdough screamed.
It had started when he accidentally spilled a potion of Speak with Dead into the starter instead of yeast.
"I am burning!" the loaf shrieked as he pulled it from the oven.
"It's just the Maillard reaction," Barnaby soothed, basting it with butter. "It gives you flavor."
The bread, which he named Loafy, was surprisingly chatty. It knew things. It had absorbed the whispers of the wheat in the field.
"The miller is cheating on his wife," Loafy whispered to a customer.
The customer dropped the bread and ran.
"Loafy! Be polite!" Barnaby scolded.
But word got around. People came from miles away not to eat the bread, but to consult it. Barnaby's bakery became a bakery-oracle.
"Will I marry the blacksmith?" a milkmaid asked.
"He prefers rye," Loafy said judgingly. "You are a brioche girl. It will never work."
One day, a dark knight entered. "I seek the Bread of Truth," he boomed.
Barnaby put Loafy on the counter. "Ask away."
"Where is the Holy Grail?"
Loafy paused. "It is in the cupboard of the old hermit on the hill. He uses it to hold his dentures."
The knight looked horrified. "That... that is disgusting."
"Truth is often yeasty," Loafy said philosophically.
The knight left, defeated. Barnaby sighed. "You know, Loafy, we could just sell croissants."
"Croissants are French," Loafy sniffed. "They are rude."