The Recipe for Happiness… Everyone in the block watched as new tenants moved into the second-floor flat—a family headed by the manager of the local factory workshop, an important business in a quiet English market town. “Why do you think they chose to live in these old red-brick flats?” wondered retired Mrs. Nina Andrews aloud to her friends. “With his connections, surely they could have landed a place in a new development.” “Don’t judge by your own standards, Mum,” chimed in her thirty-year-old unmarried daughter Anna, sporting bright makeup. “Why would they want something new when these Victorian terraces have high ceilings, grand halls, spacious rooms, and a massive balcony—like in a country house. Besides, they got a phone line the very first week—not everyone in our block even has a phone; just three out of the nine flats!” “You’re always gabbing on the phone!” scolded her mother. “You’re a nuisance to the neighbours. And mind you don’t start pestering the new lot—they’re proper and busy people.” “Oh, they’re not so serious! They’re young, and they have a little girl—nine years old, Natasha,” Anna replied, giving her mum a wounded look. “They’re practically my age, just five years older at most.” The new neighbours turned out to be polite and cheerful—Lydia worked as the school librarian, Ivan had been at the factory for ten years. Anna became the neighbourhood news source, chatting with the ladies in the courtyard each evening as her mum listened in. “How do you already know all this, Anna?” they would tease. “Oh, I pop in to use their phone! Unlike some people, they actually let me,” Anna retorted, referencing the times neighbours refused to open their door, suspecting she’d yak away for ages to her girlfriends. So Anna befriended the newcomers and made herself at home, often calling friends and colleagues for long chats, showing up in new outfits or cosy dressing gowns, clearly hoping to grow close to the family. One day, she noticed Ivan pointedly closing the lounge door when she entered to use the phone. The same thing happened again and again. Anna would flash a smile at Lydia and peek into the kitchen to thank her after her calls, but Lydia would just nod and politely ask her to shut the door on her way out. “I can’t—my hands are covered in flour,” Lydia would explain. “Our lock snaps shut on its own—it’s French.” “Oh, what are you baking now? More pastries? You always have something fresh coming out of the oven… I never learnt to bake,” Anna gushed. “Just making some sweet cheese buns for breakfast, but I won’t have time in the morning—that’s why I’m baking now,” Lydia smiled, turning back to her dough. Anna grimaced and left, annoyed her friendship wasn’t warming up. Later that evening, Ivan said, “Listen, Lyds, I know it’s awkward to refuse her, but our phone is permanently tied up every evening and my mates can’t get through. It’s not fair.” “Yes, she’s gotten a bit too comfortable, coming in as if she lives here and gossiping away,” Lydia agreed. That same night, Anna showed up again—dressed to the nines, made up, and perched on the hallway chair chatting away. After ten minutes, Lydia asked, “Anna, will you be long? We’re expecting a call.” Anna nodded and hung up but pulled a chocolate bar from her pocket and grinned, “I brought treats! Come on, let’s have tea—my treat for getting to know you.” She laid the chocolate on the kitchen table, but Lydia hesitated. “No, please—take it away. Natasha has allergies; she can’t have sweets. In our house, chocolate is a strict no-go.” “What? But I was just being kind,” Anna blushed, stung. “No need for grateful gifts, and do us a favour: don’t come by so often—unless it’s for a real emergency, the doctor or fire brigade. That’s different. Even in the middle of the night, we’d understand. But just for chatting… best not,” Lydia managed politely. Anna took her chocolate and left without a word, feeling slighted, and convinced herself Lydia must be jealous of her youth or charm. “She knows I’m younger, prettier—that’s why she snubbed me,” Anna griped to her mum. “I only wanted to be friendly, but she wouldn’t even pour me a cup of tea—and I brought my own chocolate.” “Silly girl,” Mrs. Andrews sighed. “You shouldn’t force your way into someone else’s home. If they don’t want your calls, that’s their right. They’re a decent family, not a public drop-in centre, and you were firmly shown the door. Don’t make it about jealousy—find yourself a husband and get your own phone, then let your neighbours come calling on you!” Anna’s last attempt at getting close was to pop round with a notebook to ask Lydia for her cheese bun recipe. “Could you give me your sweet cheese bun recipe? I really should learn…” “Better ask your mum,” Lydia replied, surprised. “Our mums know lots—I always just mix by eye, I don’t use strict measures. My hands know what to do. Sorry, I’d really better dash.” Anna blushed again and trudged home. She knew her mum’s battered old recipe book was in the kitchen, full of handwritten gems—salads, pies, even fish terrine. Half the book was devoted to cakes and baking. But Anna didn’t fancy baking, and her mum had long since given it up due to her blood pressure. Still, Anna retrieved the notebook, leafed through indifferently, then found the recipe she needed, surprising her mother. “Are you actually planning on baking?” Mrs. Andrews gasped. “Why does that surprise you?” Anna snapped the book shut. “Has something happened with Slava? I thought you’d parted, just like all your other beaus.” “Why would you think that? He’ll come running back whenever I want,” Anna grumbled. “Well, then why not want it?” her mother chuckled. “And what recipe are you after? I’ll help if you like.” “I can manage,” Anna replied quickly. A few days later, when her mum got back from her evening walk, the smell of baking greeted her. “Good Lord, what’s that? Pies baking? You must really be in love,” her mother exclaimed. “Don’t shout so the whole block hears! Come in and have a taste. They’re cheese buns, traditional ones.” The kettle steamed, the table was set, and a plate of golden cheese buns awaited. “You’ve still got it,” her mum said. “We haven’t baked together in ages and I thought you’d forgotten—but you did it. Well done.” “Don’t just say that—tell me honestly. Are they all right?” “You’ve got a tongue, haven’t you? Try one!” her mum laughed. Anna flashed back to her Dad—those were his words: “It’s edible.” The highest praise. “Right then, I’ll invite Slava round for tea soon—serve him these. Think he’ll like them?” “He’ll love them! I won your Dad by baking these—he was besotted with both the buns and me,” her mum grinned. “Keep baking and invite him. I’ll go watch telly at the neighbour’s—good to see you finally have your priorities straight. You won’t win hearts just by dressing up and curling your hair.” Soon, Slava became a regular visitor. The rows faded, Anna spent more time in the kitchen, with Slava helping and their laughter echoing through the flat. When Anna told her mum they’d registered for marriage, Mrs. Andrews nearly wept with joy. Anna blossomed, slimming down before the wedding. Slava teased, “You’ve stopped baking! Will you make a cake for our wedding at least?” For the home wedding, Anna, her mother, and aunt spent two days preparing festive dishes, though there’d only be about twenty guests—all family. The newlyweds moved into their own big room in the three-bedroom flat. That year, telephones were finally installed for all households. Anna, now content, called everyone at first, but always kept her chats short: “Sorry, Rita, got to dash—my dough’s rising and Slava’s heading home. Bye!” She hurried to the kitchen, where the dough was lifting under its own yeasty cloud. Anna was expecting, her maternity leave just a month away, but the young wife never rested—she cooked, she baked, keeping her husband happy. She adored cheese buns, especially homemade, and so did he—after all, what could be sweeter than a home filled with warmth, laughter, and the smell of baking?

The Recipe for Happiness…
The entire block watched as the new tenants moved into the second-floor flat, arms loaded with boxes and duffel bags. It was the family of Mr John Carter, the shift supervisor at the local factory, quite an important workplace in our small English town.

Why would they choose to live here in these old buildings? muttered Mrs Frances Wilkinson, the retired lady from No. 6, as she gossiped with her friends, With his position, surely he could snap up a place in one of those modern flats.

Oh, Mum, dont be so quick to judge. Who needs a shiny new build when weve got a classic Georgian terrace here, with its high ceilings, big, separate rooms, a proper hallway, and a balcony spacious enough to call a sitting room? chimed in her daughter, thirty-year-old Emily, sporting a bold lipstick and a thick sweep of eyeliner. Plus, they got a phone line straight away. Not many in this building have phonesjust three in all nine flats…

Youre always fretting about phone calls, her mother chided, The neighbours are well tired of you by now. Dont even think of pestering the newcomers; theyre busy, respectable people…

Oh, theyre not that distant, really. Theyre a young couple, and their little girls only nine, her names Sophie, Emily protested, rolling her eyes slightly. Theyre almost my age, only a few years older, perhaps five at the most.

It turned out the new neighbours were genuinely friendly and always polite. Mrs Laura Carter worked at the school library, while Mr Carter had clocked up a good ten years at the factory.

Emily reported all this to the ladies gathered on the green by the hedges in the evenings, where her mother liked to sit and chat.

And how do you know so much already? the other women teased her. Emily, you ought to have been a detective.

I just pop in sometimes to use their phone. Unlike some, they dont mind, Emily said, pointedlyto remind them how sometimes neighbours pretended not to be at home, knowing she could natter away to her friends for half an hour about nothing in particular.

Thats how Emily befriended the new arrivals and became a regular when it came to phone calls to her friends or colleagues, happily making herself comfortable on their hallway ottoman as she chatted away.

Sometimes, shed dress up; other times, show up in her tatty dressing gown, always angling for a cup of tea and a chat. But one particular day, she spotted John shutting the living room door firmly and rather obviously when she arrived to call her friend. This happened again several times. Emily would flash a smile at Laura and thank her after each call, poking her head into the kitchen, but Laura only nodded curtly and asked her to shut the door.

Do shut the door behind youmy hands are covered in flour, said Laura, The lock clicks itselfits a French one.

Oh, what are you baking this time? More buns? Goodness, you always have fresh pastries on the go, said Emily. I wouldnt even know where to start.

Yes, Im making Chelsea buns for breakfast. Mornings are too busy, so I bake them in the evening, Laura replied, already turning back to her dough.

Emily left in a huff, slighted that no one seemed to want a proper chat with her.

Laura, I know you feel awkward turning her away, John said one evening, but our phones always engaged with Emily every evening, which means my mates cant get through. It cant go on like this.

I agree, Laura replied. She just breezes in, sits there as if its her own front room, and doesnt know when to leave

That very evening, Emily, dolled up and cheerful, settled onto the hallway bench and dialled her friend once more.

Emily, will you be much longer on the phone? Laura asked after ten minutes, Were expecting a call.

Yes, yes, Ill be quick, Emily agreed. She put the receiver down, but produced a chocolate bar from her pocket.

Ive brought something sweet today! Lets have a proper cup of teamake a bit of an occasion of it.

She went into the kitchen and set the chocolate on the table.

Oh, do take that back, please. Sophie isnt allowed sweetsits her allergy. Chocolates off-limits for all of us, Im afraid. So, a tea partys out. Sorry. Please dont be offended, but chocolate is simply not allowed in our home.

What? Not allowed? Emily flushed, Well, as you wish. I just wanted to say thank you, thats all.

No need for gifts, but please try not to come by too often for phone callssave it for emergencies, Laura said, forcing a polite smile. Calls to the doctor, an ambulance, fire brigadeof course, any time, even in the middle of the night. But otherwise, wed be grateful if you didnt. Johns getting calls from work, and Sophies distracted from her homework. We try to keep the house as quiet as we can.

Emily took her chocolate and left without a word, feeling sure Laura must be jealous of her.

She knows Im younger and much prettier, Emily explained bitterly to her mother later. Thats itshes just jealous. I tried to be friendly, brought chocolateshe wouldnt even pour a cuppa.

You foolish girl, Frances replied, I must have raised you all wrong. You cant just waltz into someone elses family life, telephone in hand. They dont need your calls, and youve been told as muchdont get cross. And dont start on about jealousy. Find a husband, get your own phone, and then let your neighbours come round to borrow itthen youll have them round for tea as much as you like.

Emilys last attempt to warm up to Laura came when she showed up with a notebook, asking for Lauras famous Chelsea bun recipe.

I thought Id finally learn how to bake something. Would you be kind and jot down the recipe?

Why not ask your own mother? Laura replied, genuinely surprised. Our mums usually know best. Besides, Im no helpI always make the dough by eye, never with exact measurements. My hands just know what to do, she laughed. And I really must dashIm already running late. So, best ask your mum!

Emily blushed, returning home. She knew perfectly well that her mother kept an old, well-thumbed cookbook in the kitchen cupboard, with recipes for everything from roast gammon to apple crumbles and, of course, plenty for buns and cakes.

But Emily had never wanted to bake herself, and her mother hadnt done much since putting herself on a diet for her blood pressure.

Still, Emily fetched the cookbook and, rather without emotion, leafed through until she found exactly the Chelsea bun recipe she needed, much to her mothers surprise.

Youre planning to bake something? her mother asked, astonished.

Why do you sound so shocked? Emily snapped the book shut, marking the page with the corner of the next sheet.

Does this mean things are on the up with Michael again? Frances asked, I thought you two had called it quits. Like the others before him.

Why would you think that? Emily frowned, If I decide I want him back, hell come running.

Then do so. Its high time you settled down. What recipe were you after anyway?

Doesnt matter. Just getting ideas, Emily replied, waving her off.

A day or two later, when her mother came home from her evening walk, a warm, sweet aroma hit her at the door.

Whats this? Is that the smell of baking? Good heavens, you must be in lovenever thought Id see the day.

Dont shout all over the house, Mum, Emily grinned. Come and try one. And these arent piestheyre Chelsea buns. With a proper English filling.

The kettle was already whistling on the hob, Emily had arranged the cups, teapot, and a plate of golden buns on the table.

Youve still got that knack, Frances said, We havent done this together in years and I thought youd forgotten it all. But youve done well, love. These are wonderful…

Are you just saying that? Emily asked, Honestly now. Are they any good?

Try one yourselftheyre perfectly edible! her mother replied. Emily grinned, remembering her late fathers praisethe highest he ever gaveedible.

Well then. Next time, Ill invite Michael over for tea. Hell love these, wont he?

He will. No doubt about it, said her mother. Your father adored Chelsea bunsand me for making them! Bake away, call Michael, and Ill trot off to watch a film with the neighbour. About time you started using your heada pretty face and smart hair arent all it takes to win over a man.

Soon enough, Michael began popping round to see Emily, and they seemed to argue less and less. Frances got used to her daughter spending more time in the kitchen, with Michael lending a hand, their laughs drifting out into the hall.

When Emily told her mother theyd filed the notice of marriage at the registry office, Frances even wiped a tear awayfinally, she thought.

Emily changed, too. She slimmed down, eager to lose a little weight before the wedding, while Michael would grumble, No more Chelsea buns? Save some for the wedding then, will you?

For their small wedding at home, Emily, her mother, and her aunt (Francess sister) spent two days cooking, though there were only twenty guests, mostly family.

The newlyweds took over a spacious room in their three-bedroom flat. Within a year, everyone in the building had a phone line installed. Emily was satisfied. She called friends often, but never for long.

Sorry, Rita, cant chatdoughs risen and Michael will be home on the dot. Bye for now!

Emily hurried to the kitchen, where a soft dough ballooned in her mixing bowl. She was expecting now, soon going on maternity leave, still baking and cooking to please her husbandand honestly, she loved those buns, especially with a spoonful of good fresh cheese. Such a treat! With her warmth and baking, Michael was completely smitten.

My lesson, looking back on these events, is simple: real happiness is almost always home-baked. Its in small gesturesthe effort you put into your family, not in trying to wedge yourself into others lives. True contentment, like a Chelsea bun lovingly rolled and baked, is best enjoyed in your own kitchen, with those you truly care for.