Nutmeg and the Mischief Maker

The baker was famed for her sweet, perfect pies,

Her cookies brought tears to the judges' eyes.

But her crowning delight, her most prized delight,

Was a cake that had won ten blue ribbons outright.

It was rich and so fluffy, a dream on a plate,

With frosting that danced on the edge of fate.

Each layer divine, with a secret inside,

A flavor so rare, no one else could decide.

The morning arrived for the next baking show,

Her tools were all ready, her skill set to glow.

She mixed up her batter, her sugar, her cream,

And baked the cake worthy of every judge's dream.

But when she cut in, her heart sank with dread,

The taste was too blandâ€"her secret had fled!

No whispers of spice, no warmth on the tongue,

Her prize-winning cake was as good as undone.

She scoured the pantry, each jar and each tin,

Where had it gone? Her patience wore thin.

Until her young cat, with a playful delight,

Swatted the jar she had lost in the night.

"Nutmeg!" she cried, as the jar hit the floor,

Its contents spread out like a spice-laden shore.

She scooped it all up, remade her sweet blend,

And saved her cake just in time for the end.

The judges all swooned, their praise reached the skies,

The baker had won with her cake of surprise.

But now she keeps nutmeg locked tight in a chest,

For the cat is a thief with a nose for the best.