YeastEnders – Episode Seventeen: Crumbs and Consequences
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.
Peggy Cherry Bakewell was already behind the bar when Phil the Pudding stormed in, Grant the Spotted Dick close behind. The jam jars rattled on their shelves with each thunderous step.
“She spoke,” Phil growled, slamming down a sugar-crusted fist. “In front of the whole Square. Clear as syrup.”
Grant nodded, arms folded. “Didn’t even flinch. Just said the words — ‘They bake chaos.’ Like it was nothing.”
Peggy wiped her floury hands and stared out the pub window. “Raisin Roxy. I knew she was flaky, but never thought she’d crumble like this.”
Fatbread was halfway through piping names onto custard tarts behind the counter. “I could, uh… take her off the jam rota?”
“No,” said Peggy, voice as sharp as lemon drizzle. “Let her show her face. If she’s really thrown in with Sticky Nick, I want her to serve this Square a batch of answers.”
At that moment, Maurice Mille Feuille wandered in, flicking sugar off his cuffs.
“She’s been seen heading toward the bakery van,” he said casually. “Carrying something… looked like old photos.”
Peggy’s cherry twitched. “She’s digging into the past.”
“Good,” Phil muttered. “Maybe she’ll remember what this Square used to stand for. Before the Bunch got butter on everything.”
Outside, Dotty Doughnut was helping Maurice set up his pastry poetry stall.
“You lot still doing Open Mic?” she asked, eyeing the creaky microphone and bunting made of scone doilies.
Maurice adjusted his beret. “Of course. Even in the face of a bun uprising, art must rise like a perfectly proofed pain au chocolat.”
From across the Square, Roxy watched. She’d seen the looks. Heard the whispers. But it wasn’t until she reached into her apron pocket that her breath caught.
A crumpled old photo.
Faded. Sugar-smudged.
Phil, Grant, and a younger Roxy — all smiles, arms linked outside the Queen Victoria Sponge, back when the oven doors were always open and jam was for scones, not for sending threats.
She stared at it for a long time.
Then tore it clean in half.
Suddenly — a voice behind her.
“Thought you’d burned that, Roxy.”
She turned slowly.
Sticky Nick leaned against the alley wall, arms folded, black treacle dripping from his coat lapels.
“You’re either in,” he said softly, “or you’re toast.”
Roxy looked at the torn photo in one hand… and the warm croissant Maurice had slipped her earlier in the other.
A choice between past and present.
Family… or flaky redemption.
CRASH!
The window of the Queen Victoria Sponge shattered — a rock wrapped in marzipan and a message: “Next time, it’s not jam.”
Peggy read it, lips tightening.
Grant clenched his spotted fists.
Phil reached for his rolling pin.
Behind them, the pub clock ticked once, then stopped.
duff duff duff duff duff duff duff duff…
Blind Man Makes 