The Spice That Survived the Crossing” In the late 18th century, ginger was more than flavor—it was preservation, medicine, and memory. A single tin of ground ginger might travel from a port in Boston to a cabin in the Cumberland Gap, passed between hands that knew its worth. These rounds, baked from a 1796 recipe, were often made in autumn when root cellars filled and the hearth stayed lit. Dense, dark, and spiced to warm the bones.

Coconut throughout, toasted on top—no glaze, no fuss, just flavour.

“Hearthspice from the Last Log” When the fire burned low and only one log remained, frontier bakers would coil dough around spice and sugar—stretching warmth into the morning. Cinnamon was rare, traded in tins and guarded like medicine. These swirls were baked fast, eaten slow, and shared with those who’d kept the hearth lit through the night. Our version honours that ritual: cinnamon folded deep, maple glaze on top, and the ember’s memory in every bite.

“Harvest Drop from the Orchard Fence” When apples fell too bruised for storage but too sweet to waste, frontier cooks would mash them into fritters—fried fast before the fire died. Children would sneak them from cooling racks, still steaming. Our fritters echo that urgency: golden, craggy, and made for hands that don’t wait.