The Recipe for Happiness… Everyone in the block watched as new residents moved into the second-floor flat—a family led by the supervisor of a key factory in a small provincial English town. “Why would they choose an old building to live in?” pensioner Mrs. Nina Anderson asked her friends. “With their connections, they surely could’ve snatched up a new-build somewhere fancy.” “Don’t judge by yourself, Mum,” replied her unmarried thirty-year-old daughter Anna, her make-up bright. “This is a proper period flat—high ceilings, big separate rooms, a spacious hallway, and the balcony’s almost a full room on its own! Besides, they had a phone line put in right away—not many of us do; just three phones among nine flats…” “You just want to chat on the phone all the time,” her mother chided. “The neighbours are sick of it. Don’t you dare bother these serious people—they lead busy lives…” “They aren’t so serious, Mum—they’re young. Their daughter Natasha is only nine. They’re my age, maybe five years older,” Anna insisted. The new neighbours turned out to be polite and friendly. Lydia worked as a school librarian, while Ivan already had a decade of factory experience. Anna relayed all this to the women on the communal bench where her mother and the other ladies chatted each night. “And how do you already know all this?” they teased her. “You’re like a regular detective!” “I pop in to use their phone—they let me, unlike some people,” Anna hinted, recalling neighbours who pretended not to be home to avoid her hour-long gossip sessions. So, Anna got to know the newcomers and grew increasingly fond of dropping by to chat to her friends or colleagues—sometimes in her smart new outfits, sometimes in cosy house clothes—always on the lookout for friendship. One day she noticed Ivan firmly shutting the sitting room door when she arrived to make a call. It happened more than once. Anna would smile at Lydia in the kitchen and thank her after her calls, but Lydia only nodded and asked her to pull the door shut as she left. “Can’t close behind me, hands are covered in flour,” Lydia would say. “The lock clicks itself—French, you see.” “Ooh, baking again? More pies? You always have something in the oven… I never learned how,” Anna admitted. “Yes, I’m prepping cheese danishes for breakfast. No time in the mornings, so I do it now,” Lydia smiled, turning back to her dough. Anna would leave, sulking at their lack of warmth. “Lydia, you find it hard to tell her no, but our phone’s always busy thanks to her—my mates can’t get hold of me,” Ivan once remarked. “I did notice she’s making herself far too comfortable, treating our home like a drop-in centre,” agreed Lydia. That evening, Anna, dressed up and with bright lipstick, was again perched on the hallway stool gossiping into the receiver. “Anna, are you nearly done? We’re expecting a call,” said Lydia after ten minutes. Anna nodded and hung up, but then produced a bar of chocolate. “I’ve brought a treat for tea—let’s celebrate getting to know each other!” She headed for the kitchen, placing the chocolate on the table. “Please, take it away,” Lydia said. “If Natasha sees, she’ll be tempted, but she’s allergic—no sweets allowed. No tea for us, sorry; chocolate’s taboo here.” “What? Taboo? Well, suit yourself. I meant well,” said a flustered Anna. “No need for gifts. And use the phone only if it’s for something important—a doctor, an emergency. That’s different, even in the middle of the night—we understand. But otherwise, please, not so often,” Lydia said as kindly as she could. Anna took back her chocolate and left without a word, confused by their coldness and blaming Lydia’s jealousy. “She can see I’m younger and prettier, Mum—that’s why. I only wanted some friendly company over tea,” Anna lamented. “You’re stubborn and foolish,” sighed Mrs. Anderson. “Stop pushing into other people’s homes. Make friends on your own terms—get your own phone, invite neighbours to yours if you must!” Anna’s last attempt at befriending Lydia came when she arrived with a notepad, asking for the danish recipe. “You’d best ask your mother—she knows all the recipes,” Lydia replied, surprised. “I don’t use exact amounts, I do it by eye. My hands just remember,” she smiled, hurrying out. Anna blushed and went home. Of course, her mum had an old recipe notebook stuffed in a kitchen cupboard with scribbled-down instructions for everything—salads, pies, even festive fish terrine. Anna didn’t want to bake herself, but with her own mother’s baking days long past, she finally gave it a go. She found the recipe, to her mother’s amazement. “Are you really going to bake something?” Mrs. Anderson exclaimed. “Why is that so surprising?” Anna asked. “Perhaps things with Slav are getting serious…” her mum guessed. “What if they are?” Anna retorted. “So be it—you’re long overdue! Want advice with the recipe?” “No need. Just preparing myself,” came the reply. But when her mother returned from her walk a few days later, the warm scent of fresh pastries filled the flat. “Goodness‒pies!” Mrs. Anderson exclaimed. “You must be in love; nothing else explains it!” “Shh, not so loud,” Anna smiled. “Taste for yourself—these are cheese danishes, just like the old days.” The teacups were out, and a plate piled with golden sunburst treats awaited. “You haven’t lost your touch,” her mother praised. “It’s like old times.” “Don’t just say so—do they taste right?” Anna asked. “Try for yourself! There’s nothing wrong with them—your father used to say ‘that’s edible’ and it was the highest praise!” Anna pondered. “Maybe I’ll invite Slav for tea soon—what do you think?” “Oh, he’ll love them, I’m sure. I won your father over with danishes too—couldn’t get enough of them or me!” Mrs. Anderson chuckled. “You keep baking, and I’ll go watch a film with the neighbour. Time you settled down—curls and dresses alone won’t catch a man!” Soon, Anna’s boyfriend Slav started coming round. There were fewer arguments, and her mother grew used to the couple’s laughter and busy kitchen. When Anna announced they’d put in for the register office, her mother even shed a tear of joy. Anna had slimmed for the wedding, and Slav joked: “Have you stopped baking danishes for good? Will we have pies at the wedding feast?” Wedding preparations were a family affair, with Anna, her mother, and aunt cooking for two days, though just twenty close relatives were invited. The newlyweds had the largest room in the shared flat. Within a year, the whole building was equipped with telephones. Anna called everyone at first—but kept her chats brief. “Sorry, Rita, have to dash—the dough is ready and Slav will be home soon!” Now, with a baby on the way, Anna kept baking—her husband’s favourite cheese danishes, always fresh and homemade. And he adored her, for her warmth, her treats, and their happy home.

The Recipe for Happiness

Everyone in the block was watching as the new family moved into the second-floor flat. It was the family of the plant manager, a key figure in our small, sleepy English town.

I dont get why they wanted to live in this old estate, Mrs. Edith Harris, a retired lady and one of our neighbours, was saying to her friends. With his position, they couldve surely landed a flat in those fancy new developments.

Oh, Mother, not everyone wants something flashy, replied her daughter, Jeanette, thirty, still single and always dolled up. This place is proper solid real Victorian ceilings, big rooms, a roomy hallway, and that balcony you could fit a four-poster on. And dont forget, theyve got a phone line already. Only three of us in this entire block have one, and there are nine flats!

Youre just missing your daily gossip on the phone, Edith snapped back. Dont you go bothering those folk theyre important people and busy.

Oh, theyre not so serious. Theyre young, after all, and their daughters only nine her names Emily, Jeanette argued, pouting. Theyre practically my age. Well, maybe a few years older.

Turned out, our new neighbours were kind and always smiling. Clara worked in the local school library, and Richard had already gone a decade at the plant.

Jeanette gossiped about all this during her evening outings to the yard, where her mother would sit and chat with the neighbours.

How on earth do you know so much already? the women joked. Oh, Jeanette, youre a regular barrister!

Its easy, I stop by to use their phone. Unlike some, theyre always polite and let me, shed say, shooting a look at the neighbours whod learned not to open their doors when Jeanette came calling for a chat that would last ages.

So, Jeanette got well acquainted with the newcomers, and soon shed be ringing her friends and colleagues from their phone, making herself at home as if it were her own. Shed show up in new outfits or her cosiest dressing gown, clearly hoping for a bit of neighbourly friendship.

One day, she noticed Richard rather pointedly closing the living room door to watch telly when shed drop by. It happened a few times. Jeanette would just smile at Clara after her calls, poking her head into the kitchen. Clara always just nodded and asked her to shut the door on her way out.

Sorry, cant close it, my hands are covered in flour, Clara explained, and the locks tricky its a French one.

Oh, what are you baking? More buns? You seem to be always baking I wish I knew how! Jeanette commented.

These are Chelsea buns for breakfast. No time in the mornings, so I do them now, Clara smiled, turning back to her dough.

Jeanette would scrunch up her nose, sulking away, dismayed that the neighbourly chats never blossomed.

Listen, Clara, Richard said one evening, I know you dont want to seem rude, but that womans always tying up the phone in the evenings now my mates cant get through. Its just not on.

I know, she comes and goes as she pleases, and treats our place like a drop-in centre, Clara agreed.

That very night, Jeanette, all spruced up, settled herself on their hallway stool, phone in hand, nattering away to a friend.

Jeanette, could you finish up soon? Were expecting a call, Clara asked after ten minutes.

Jeanette nodded understandingly, quickly ending her call. She then fished a chocolate bar from her bag and announced, Thought Id bring something sweet today. Shall we have tea together?

She marched into the kitchen and set her chocolate on the table.

Oh, please, take it back. If Emily sees, shell want some, and she cant have it allergies. No tea for us, sorry. Chocolates a forbidden fruit in this house.

What? Seriously? Jeanette blushed. But its just a gift just wanted to say thank you.

No need for thanks, but please dont use the phone so often. Unless its to ring a doctor, an ambulance, or the fire brigade thats different. Even if its the middle of the night, well always understand. But, really, please dont take it amiss, Clara managed, Richard gets calls from work, and Emily gets distracted by voices when shes doing her homework. We try to keep things quiet.

Pocketing the chocolate, Jeanette left in a huff, still not understanding, and decided Clara must simply be jealous of her.

She probably knows Im younger and prettier, she complained to her mum, so now shes just envious. I was only trying to be friendly, brought my own chocolate and everything and she didnt even serve tea!

Youre being silly, and stubborn, girl, Edith replied. I must not have brought you up right. You shouldnt force your way into other peoples families. They dont need you making calls in their home. Its not a free-for-all. Theyve shown you the door, plain as day. And now youre all sore about it, and inventing jealousy. Find a husband, get yourself a phone line, and let neighbours come calling on you!

Jeanette made one last effort when she turned up with a notepad, hoping to get Claras bun recipe.

I wanted to ask for your recipe. Maybe its high time I learnt something for myself If you tell me how, Ill go straight home and try.

Why not ask your mum? Our mums always know best, Clara remarked, surprised. I cant really help; I make the dough by eye, never measure a thing My hands just know what to do now, she chuckled. Besides, Im in a rush. Honestly, do ask your mum!

Jeanette blushed again, returning home. She knew there was an old, grease-stained notebook in the kitchen; her mums recipe book, filled with page after page in neat script salads, casseroles, soups, even fish pie, with most of it dedicated to cakes and bakes her mother used to make all the time.

But Jeanette never fancied baking herself, and her mum had stopped too, watching her waistline and battling high blood pressure.

Still, Jeanette dug out the book and idly flicked through it, surprised to find exactly the recipe she needed.

So, youre finally going to bake something? Edith gasped.

Whys that so shocking? Jeanette snapped the notebook shut after folding down the right page.

Maybe things are picking up with that Rob, then? I thought youd split up. Just like all the others.

No, why would we? Jeanette tossed back. Hed come running if I clicked my fingers.

Well, why dont you? Youre long past getting married. What were you looking for in there, anyway maybe I can help?

No, leave it. Im still working up the courage, Jeanette replied, a bit sheepishly.

A few days later, Edith returned from a walk and was hit by the warm, inviting scent of baking.

Well, now Ive seen it all! The house smells like a bakery! she gasped, Youve got to be in love.

Shh, not so loud! Jeanette grinned. Come taste they arent pies, theyre Chelsea buns. Cheese ones. Traditional.

The kettle was boiling on the stove, Jeanette had already set out teacups, a teapot, and a platter of buns that glowed golden on the table.

Youve done well, said Edith. We havent baked together in ages, and I thought youd forgotten everything, but look at you now. Theyre quite all right, love. Well done.

Dont just humour me, Mum. Be honest. Are they actually good, or just edible? Jeanette pressed.

Oh, stop fishing have a bite and see for yourself! Theyre very good! Edith laughed, echoing Jeanettes dads favourite praise: Theyre very good.

Right then. Ill invite Rob round for tea soon. See what he thinks of my buns, Jeanette grinned.

Hell love them. Thats how I won your dad over Chelsea buns, and I had him wrapped round my little finger! her mum joked. Bake, invite him over, and Ill nip out to see Mrs. Smith and watch a film. Glad youre finally using your head it takes more than clothes and curls to win a man.

Rob started coming over regularly after that. The rows became fewer; the laughter in the kitchen was infectious, and Edith grew used to Jeanette spending most of her time baking with her beau lending a hand.

So, when Jeanette finally told her mum that she and Rob had given notice at the registry office, Edith teared up: finally.

Jeanette herself changed too she slimmed down, eager to shed weight before the big day. Rob would tease, What, no more Chelsea buns for me? But youll make a huge pie for the wedding, wont you?

Ahead of their home wedding, Jeanette, her mum, and her Aunt Susan cooked for two days, even though fewer than twenty relatives would attend.

The young couple made their home in a large room in the shared flat. A year later, everyone in the building had their own phone, and Jeanette, delighted, made calls to everyone. But now she kept them short.

Sorry, Rita, got to go doughs ready and Rob will be home soon. Bye!

She hurried to the kitchen, where the dough had puffed up like a cushion. Jeanette was expecting now and her maternity leave was coming up. Still, she bustled about, baking to please her husband and she loved cheese buns as much as he did. Homemade what a treat! And you could tell Rob adored her deeply for her baking and her kindness.

If Ive learned one thing from all this, its that the recipe for happiness is sometimes already sitting in your own kitchen you just have to dust it off, trust your hands, and share it with the people who matter.