Image Description: An overhead view of a fictional baked-goods town called Walnutford, designed in the style of a map. A glossy custard river runs horizontally from left to right across the centre of the image, gently curving as it flows. On either side of the river is a bustling town made entirely of baked treats. You can see pies with lattice and star tops, croissants, bread rolls, loaves, tarts, and pastry parcels, all arranged like buildings on a map. Whipped cream puffs and green fondant leaves appear like trees and parks. The ground looks like it’s dusted with fine flour or biscuit crumbs. At the top centre, large white text reads “YeastEnders”, with “Walnutford” in smaller letters below. The entire scene is warm, golden, and surreal – a deliciously baked parody of the EastEnders opening titles.
Episode Two – The Secret Recipe
The pub is unusually quiet the next morning. Peggy Cherry Bakewell stands alone behind the bar of The Queen Victoria Sponge, arms folded, her red cherry glinting under the lights. Her blonde icing swirl is still set from the night before, but her mood is darker than burnt crust.
Dot Crumble totters in, her sugar-dusted coat trailing a flurry of icing behind her.
“Well?” she asks, settling onto her usual seat. “Did anyone show?”
Peggy shakes her head. “Only Phil. Everyone else’s gone flaky. Even the Jammy Dodgers youth lot said they were ‘busy’. Busy? On a Thursday?”
Dot raises an eyebrow. “Something’s going on.”
Across Almond Square, the lights are on early at Ye Olde Crumb and Butter. Inside, Chantelle Chia Bun — one of the new arrivals — wipes down the counter with suspicious precision. She’s sleek and seeded, with a shiny golden glaze and a sprinkle of smug. Her sourdough partner, Rye-an Crust, flips the chalkboard sign with a wink.
Today’s special: Treacle sponge… perfected.
Phil the Pudding storms in from the back door of the pub, custard patch hastily repaired.
“Mum!” he growls. “I’ve just seen ‘em unloading crates from a van round the back. Not bakery stock. Boxes marked: B.B.L.C.”
Peggy narrows her eyes. “That’s not a supplier. That’s… that’s the Bakewell Baking League Council.”
Dot Crumble gasps so hard her pastry top cracks. “You don’t think they’re… submitting that stolen recipe for certification?”
“They’d be mad,” Phil mutters. “Unless they think no one can prove it’s ours.”
Peggy reaches beneath the counter and pulls out a faded, butter-stained scroll from an old biscuit tin. She lays it flat on the table. Handwritten in flowing raspberry jam ink:
Nana Bakewell’s Original Treacle Sponge Formula – 1952.
“This,” Peggy says, tapping it with her fork, “is our insurance.”
Back across the square, Sharon Scone walks briskly out of the rival café, her cherry reattached but slightly off-centre. Stacey Swiss Roll watches from a distance, arms folded.
“Bit early for pastries, isn’t it?” she calls out, voice sharp.
Sharon flinches. “Just doing some… market research.”
Stacey rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well maybe next time do it without crumbs down your front.”
Sharon hurries off, jam slightly leaking at the edges.
Back at the pub, Peggy pulls on her apron, tightens her icing swirl, and lifts the recipe scroll with care.
“If they want war,” she says, “they’re going to get a proper Bakewell showdown.”
Duff duff duff… a floury breeze rattles the windows.
Blind Man Makes 