Traci licked the batter off the spoon and paused. There was something missing. She added a dash of sugar, a few sprinkles of cinnamon, and a drop of vanilla. After giving the mixture a quick whisk, Traci smoothly pushed the tray of cupcakes into the oven.Now it was time to make the caramel cream icing. Traci felt happy, peaceful, and content in her kitchen, surrounded by cracked egg shells and flour speckled countertops. There was something she loved about baking; the process of mixing together the ingredients, measuring out the quantities, not to mention the satisfaction she felt when a friend bit into a piece of her carrot cake drenched with lemon cream cheese icing and sighed in ecstasy.When she had turned 16, Traci’s grandmother, recognising her talent for baking, had passed her the secret family recipe for traditional, Bermudian cassava pie. Her granny’s pie was delicious, and by New Year’s Eve there were rarely any leftovers. It wouldn’t be Christmas without granny’s cassava pie.Although Traci had pretended to be annoyed when Carla, her sister, called her at work earlier today and requested cupcakes for a school bake sale tomorrow, she was secretly pleased. Carla couldn’t bake to save herself. The last time her sister made chocolate chip cookies they were seasoned with lumps of baking soda.Ever since she was young Traci had loved baking, but when she turned 30 last year, she began to feel a bit silly staying home on Friday night and baking up a storm. Cool thirtysomething’s did not spend Friday nights in the kitchen.Last November, Traci came up with an idea. Although it was a small idea and it might not do much to change Bermuda, it was her way of making the island a more caring, compassionate place. Armed with a list of all the people she had heard were experiencing financial hardships, Traci went into the kitchen, took out her mixing bowl and old-fashioned wooden spoon, and began to bake. Savory, golden cassava pies emerged from the oven in tin foil trays large enough to feed an army. Last year she had baked almost two dozen, and this year, using her bonus money, she planned to bake more.Like the tooth fairy, the gifts were delivered quietly at night. Traci crept up to the doorstep of the recipient’s home, rang the doorbell and left a fresh, warm pie on the doorstep. She didn’t see the point of introducing herself. They might think she was a crazy person; or they might be reluctant out of pride, to accept her gift. It was enough to think about a family enjoying the cassava pie on Christmas Day, especially if they were out of work and couldn’t afford groceries. A well-made pie could feed a family for at least a week.Traci’s attention snapped back to the present. Her nephew’s cup cakes were iced and ready for the bake sale. There was even some time left over for a quick gym work out. The gym was crowded so Traci decided to go outside for a short run. iPod thumping, she picked up the pace and passed a construction site. Suddenly her stride was broken and she smashed into the pavement, the force of the impact leaving her face ringing with pain and blood on her lips.Traci tried to stand up but her ankle was throbbing. Spasms of pain shot through her ankle and calves. The ankle bone was already turning a bluish purple colour. Later that night, after managing to drive home, Traci propped the ankle up on the sofa, covered it in an ice pack, and waited for her sister to arrive.“Oh dear, what happened to you,” shrieked Carla as soon as she bounded through the door. “I can’t move, it hurts,” whimpered Traci from the sofa, “I might need crutches.”The next day Traci cursed herself for ever mentioning the word crutches. Not only had the emergency room doctor agreed, but he had enlisted the help of her entire family in making sure that she used them. Carla and Mom would be coming over with her meals in the evenings, and at the insurance company where she worked, her colleagues kindly offered to pick up her morning coffee.Traci spent most of the week in front of the television on the sofa. She prayed the ankle would heal and leave her with enough time to bake the cassava pies by Christmas Eve. But what was the point thought Traci miserably, one chilly evening, when everyone else was out enjoying pre-Christmas drinks. Christmas Day was only two days away, and the effort she made to stand for just a few minutes in the kitchen sent her back to the sofa cringing in pain.Christmas morning dawned bright and sunny. As she had predicted, Traci had only managed to bake two pies that week after hobbling around the kitchen and using a stool and the coffee table to mix the ingredients. Her ankle had barely healed and the doctor recommended that she keep using the crutches for the next two weeks.As she waited for Carla to arrive, Traci thought sadly about all of the people who could have received a pie on their doorstep last night. If only she hadn’t gone outside to run, she thought sadly.A few minutes later, Carla burst cheerfully into the living room, holding her computer in hand, followed by Traci’s nephew, Carla’s husband, Mom and Dad, and Mrs. Bean from next door. What were they all doing here, thought Traci? She didn’t like surprises.“We want to show you something,” said Carla, “I couldn’t think of a present to get you this year so I thought you might like this along with a Willow Stream Spa gift certificate.”Carla opened the computer and hit play. The family was in her Mom’s kitchens surrounded by bags of flour and mixing bowls. Did they steal granny’s pie recipe Traci thought grumpily? She watched in amazement as Carla gestured exuberantly at the cassava pies covering the kitchen table.“We made almost two dozen pies and Mom is already baking another batch,” her sister said proudly. “I found a list of names the other night in your bedroom when I was looking for a pair of earrings to borrow. I wondered what you were up to until Mrs. Bean stopped me in town the other day and asked if you were going to bake cassava pies again this year. Then, I figured it out. We all know that you love to bake.”Traci learned her family had spent most of the week in the kitchen.“I hope you don’t think I was spying my dear,” said her neighbour Mrs. Bean. “But I believe in knowing what is going on in my neighbourhood. I’ll be making a few pies of my own this week to contribute to your project.”Carla started giggling; “I got stopped at a house last night the owner thought I was a burglar hiding in the garden. I showed her the pie and she invited us in. She was so grateful for your gift. Last year her family couldn’t afford to buy enough groceries as they were out of work. Unfortunately, they haven’t managed to find full time employment. They want to thank you themselves for such a wonderful gift.”Traci was speechless. Not only had her family come to her aid in a time of need, they understood her desire to make the Christmas season truly meaningful by helping others.“I have another bit of news,” said Carla, giving her sister a hug. “A friend of mine wants to talk to you about a business venture. He said those cupcakes are too good for a school bake sale. He wants to meet you for coffee to go over some ideas.”The opportunity to turn her love for baking into a full time job would be a dream come true, thought Traci happily. She would be able to help as many people as she could every Christmas, surrounded by the warm, sweet smells of pies and cakes. This year Traci’s family had given her the most memorable gift of all their love and support.Traci hobbled back to the living room and smiled at her family. “Why don’t we sample some of that pie?”