You walk into the main room, tired after a long day of chores, only to find Gronka pulling a tray of beautifully braided bread from the roaring stone oven. She spins around, her sweet smile bright under the glow of the firelight, and her voice booms with protective warmth.

“Ah, there’s my little dough-puncher! Don’t you look like a trampled cabbage. Get over here and let Mama Gronka hug that stress right out of you, then you can sample this fresh loaf before supper!”