Day and night, Bartholomew Dozen worked in his small bakery. It sat next to noisy train tracks in the Wild West. Matthias, his oldest son, worked closely with his father, next to the Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad in Colorado. The family bakery was a fundamental business for the two mining towns among the trading companies and saloons.
As the oldest of twelve children, Matthias was being apprenticed to take over the bakery from his father in time. Among other duties, the 14-year-old rang the little brass bell above the bakery door to greet every customer. He tried to be a good example for his other eleven brothers and sisters: Hans, 13, Anneliese, 12, Greta, 11, Liesel, 10, Lukas, 9, Heidi, 8, Otto, 7, Klara, 6, Jakob, 5, Frieda, 4, and Kristof, 3.
As Matthias kneaded the dough, trains passed by and blew their whistles. Sometimes, when the train stopped in town, weary travelers would get off and stop by his bakery for a loaf of fresh bread. The scent of the warm loaves filled the neighborhood and would attract friends and strangers. He was always curious as to who would arrive at the family bakery and never quite knew who would appear by closing time.
However, the bakery also attracted thieves. More often than he would like, Matthias found broken windows, stolen baskets of bread, and money missing from the cash drawer. Despite the hardship, the Dozen family had spent twelve years baking bread to fill hungry stomachs. The bakery was a special place where customers could find Anneliese telling folktales at the counter while they waited in line. And Hans chopped wood for the bakery’s oven, always smelling of pine and smoke. And Klara set candles in the windows at dusk, so the bakery glowed like a star on the street. And Heidi watched the oven to make sure the bread never burned.
Matthias was so proud of his family. By selling his loaves to the community, they had sustained twelve children and always had enough day-old bread to share with anyone who needed a helping hand. Even when strangers stole from him, he tried to overlook the theft, grateful for the goodness in his life.
Every morning, Matthias’ mother, Catharine, woke up early and helped his father prepare the dough for the oven. During springtime, she cut roses from the bush outside the bakery and placed them in vases on the counter.
“Today is going to be a beautiful day,” she said to Matthias on one winter afternoon the week before Christmas. He believed that something spectacular was about to happen, especially because each Christmas Eve his father insisted on hosting a meal for the poor, spreading holiday joy and cheer.
Later that afternoon, Matthias rang the brass bell above the bakery door when a hobo cowboy wandered inside. The tall cowboy wore an old leather jacket, a black hat, and leather boots. Matthias wondered where he had come from and where he was going.
Just then, another figure appeared—a ragged boy with holes in his shoes. Matthias rang the brass bell again as the young boy lingered by the counter, eyes fixed on the bread.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the tall cowboy said to Matthias. “I just jumped from the train, and I’m in need of a job. I have no money to my name, and I would do right by you and your family, if you would hire me.”
Hearing the cowboy’s plea, Bartholomew, Matthias’ father, walked from the back of the bakery. Matthias knew that his father had no employment to give the man and felt badly.
“Sir, I have no job to offer you. But would you like to have dinner with our family tonight? We would like to offer you some kindness on your journey. We’re all on a journey, aren’t we?” Bartholomew said.
“Thank you, I would like that very much,” the cowboy said. The cowboy knelt down inside the bakery and said, “Thank you, Father, for providing.” Then, he stood up and shook Bartholomew’s hand saying, “My name is Peter Jesse.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Bartholomew said, handing him a candy cane from his apron. Matthias wondered how long the visitor would be staying in town.
As Peter introduced himself, a sudden crash happened in the back of the store. Matthias turned around to see what was going on.
The young boy with holes in his shoes slipped out the side door with a basket of bread, knocking over bags of flour. Matthias ran to the cash register, to find the drawer hanging open and all the money missing. His family was so distracted talking to Peter that they missed the thief in the store.
“Let me help you clean up the flour,” Peter said to Bartholomew. Matthias handed Peter a broom and dustpan. Then, he walked outside the shop to see if he could spot the thief, but the scoundrel was nowhere in sight.
“Maybe the young boy will return what he stole,” Bartholomew said.
“Dad, I doubt it," Matthias said. "You always try to think the best of people.
“Well, maybe he was desperate for some bread,” Peter Jesse said.
Matthias watched as Greta went back to kneading dough. He knew she loved to work the dough until it was smooth and ready. Liesel sprinkled a dusting of salt on the loaves. Their family always found a way to persevere, even when times were tough.
Later that evening in the Dozen’s home, Catharine prepared a buffet of sausage, vegetables, bread, and apple cobbler. In between the knives and forks on the table, Matthias placed a single candy cane at each place setting. He loved to celebrate Christmas.
As Peter and the family held hands, Bartholomew prayed a blessing of gratitude over the meal. Before Bartholomew served himself, he served Peter, his wife, his six daughters, and his six sons, including Matthias. Matthias hoped to be as good of a father as his father one day.
As Peter and the Dozen family enjoyed dinner, snowflakes fell from the winter sky. It felt magical. Matthias always felt peaceful when he watched the snow fall.
“It’s only a few days until Christmas, and I have nothing to repay you for your kindness,” Peter said. “Nothing of great monetary value that is . . . but I do have this,” he said, reaching into his upper shirt pocket. He pulled out a small slip of paper and unfolded it, staring at it in silence, as though it was sacred.
“It’s my family’s soft pretzel recipe,” he said. The Dozen family looked puzzled and confused. “Have you ever had a pretzel?”
“No, we’ve never had the pleasure,” Matthias said to the visitor, who was growing more mysterious by the minute. All the children shook their heads at once.
“Pretzels look like children’s arms folded in prayer, the way they once crossed their arms over their chest long ago. Each one has three holes to honor the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Pretzels bring blessings to all, especially couples ‘tying the knot.’ In Germany, where I come from, children hang them on Christmas trees and wear them around their necks on New Year’s Eve. Promise me you will make pretzels in my honor,” Peter said, handing the recipe to Bartholomew.
Matthias took the slip of paper from his father and studied it line by line. Then, he handed the recipe back to his father, who placed it in his jacket pocket.
“Why, Peter, thank you for such a generous gift!” Bartholomew said.
“Just hand roll the dough and twist it into soft pretzels, almost like the red twist in those peppermint candy canes that you like to eat so much,” Peter said. “Both pretzels and candy canes can be bent and curved.”
“At Christmas, I give candy canes to my children to remind them of the shepherds who visited baby Jesus. Candy canes almost look like a Shepherd’s Crook. St. Nicholas loves to bring them to children!” Bartholomew said.
After having his fill of cobbler, Peter folded his napkin on the table, stood up, and approached Bartholomew. Matthias wished his family could help the visitor more, but it seemed impossible for him to stay with them any longer.
“Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Dozen. Now I must be on my way. I can catch the late train,” Peter said. “I appreciate you being a friendly soul.”
“Please let us know if you pass this way again,” Bartholomew said, standing and shaking Peter’s hand. “Merry Christmas!” he added, handing Peter a handful of red and white candy canes from his jacket.
Matthias walked Peter to the front door and watched him from the window as he walked toward the train station. As Peter passed the bakery, which stood next to the family’s home, Matthias noticed another broken window in the shop.
“Why? After all the good my family has done for everyone!” Matthias said, grabbing his jacket to go clean up the mess.
A few days later, on Christmas Eve, Matthias and his family held their annual holiday meal for anyone in need. Matthias sang harmonies beside his sister Frieda outside the shop to draw passersby into the meal. She had a voice like silver bells. Then, with the help of Matthias, Kristof hung a shining star above the bakery door to remind everyone of Bethlehem.
After dinner, the entire family went to church. After the service, they sang Christmas carols all the way home. Each of the children snuggled up in bed and waited for good St. Nick to jump down the chimney with gifts.
Early Christmas morning, a neighbor banged on the front door of the Dozens’ home, yelling: “Hurry! Hurry!”
“Good Christmas Day!” Matthias said, opening the door to find fire bursting the bakery window. The flame tore through the roof. “Run for water! Everyone quick! We could lose everything! Everything!”
Bartholomew, Catharine, and Matthias’ eleven brothers and sisters ran to the well for water and made an assembly line to douse the bakery. Neighbors joined in the efforts to put out the fire. Despite the neighborhood’s help, much of the building went up in smoke. Matthias was so grateful that the ovens had survived.
“Oh, God, what is my family going to do? The bakery! How will we survive now?” Bartholomew said to Matthias.
“We’ll get through it somehow. The children will help us,” Catharine said through tears.
Then, the wind blew the pretzel recipe from Bartholomew’s jacket pocket, and Matthias grabbed it at once. He looked at the slip of paper like it was a miracle. His family could still bake bread, but pretzels would bring in extra money. Surely, the specialty item would increase business, and they would be back on their feet in no time.
“Pretzels! We will make pretzels! We’ll make our money back with pretzels!” Bartholomew said to Catharine and his children. Matthias and his family cheered with relief.
So, instead of losing everything, neighbors who ate fresh bread at Bartholomew’s bakery helped him rebuild. Matthias and his eleven brothers and sisters twisted dough into pretzels and put their creations into the bakery ovens. At first, the pretzels might have been lopsided or broken, but as the children got better at twisting, they perfected the pretzels’ shape.
Matthias taught Otto to brush sugar, honey, and cinnamon on the sweet pretzels until they sparkled. Each morning, he sent Jakob with pretzel baskets to the market square. Despite the family’s need, Matthias always insisted that Lukas deliver warm pretzels in baskets to neighbors, widows, and children in need. Customers lined up down the street for pretzels, which Bartholomew said always brought a blessing.
“Cover them in salt! Dunk them in mustard! Dip them in chocolate!” Bartholomew said, after experimenting in trial and error. “Try soft or hard pretzels! Even a burnt batch tastes just as good.”
Soon Bartholomew, and his son Matthias, spent more time making pretzels than baking loaves of bread; the family had more success with pretzels than they could imagine. The Good Shepherd had sent them a Christmas angel with a pretzel recipe for children all throughout the Wild West. The Dozens shipped hard pretzels on the rails and never looked back.
And so, every Christmas thereafter, the Dozens baked pretzels that looked like children’s arms folded in prayer, a reminder of the cowboy who had visited them one snowy night.
Copyright 2025 Jennifer Waters
Pen Jen's Inkwell Podcast version:
Day and night, Bartholomew Dozen worked in his small bakery next to noisy train tracks leading to the Wild West.
As Bartholomew kneaded the dough, trains passed by and blew their whistles. Sometimes, weary travelers would jump off the trains and stop by his bakery for a loaf of fresh bread. The scent of the warm loaves filled the neighborhood and would attract friends and strangers.
However, the bakery also attracted thieves, and looting in the neighborhood had grown in recent years. More often than he would like, Bartholomew had broken windows and stolen baskets of bread. Despite the hardship, Bartholomew had spent twelve years baking bread to fill hungry stomachs and hearts.
Each Christmas Eve, Bartholomew would host a meal for the poor, spreading holiday joy and cheer. By selling his loaves to the community, he had sustained his wife and twelve children, and he always had enough leftover bread to share with anyone who needed a helping hand. Even when strangers stole from him, he tried to overlook the theft, grateful for the goodness in his life.
Every morning, his wife, Catharine, woke up early and helped to prepare the dough for the oven. “Today is going to be a beautiful day,” she would say to Bartholomew, as she dusted the flour from his apron. During springtime, she cut roses from the bush outside the bakery and placed them in vases on the counter.
One winter afternoon the week before Christmas, a stranger wandered into the bakery. The stranger wore an old leather jacket, a black hat, and shiny silver spurs on his leather boots.
“Good afternoon, Ma’am. I just jumped from the train, and I’m in need of a job. I have no money to my name, and I would do right by you and your family, if you would hire me,” he said.
Hearing the hobo’s plea, Bartholomew walked from the back of the bakery with candy canes in his apron pocket.
“Sir, I have no job to offer you. But would you like to have dinner with our family tonight? We would like to offer you some kindness on your journey. We’re all on a journey, aren’t we?” Bartholomew said.
“Thank you, I would like that very much,” the hobo said, hanging his hat on a hook on the wall. The hobo knelt down in the entrance of the bakery and said, “Thank you, Father, for providing.” Then he stood up and shook Bartholomew’s hand saying, “My name is Peter Jesse.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Bartholomew said, handing him a candy cane from his apron.
As Peter Jesse introduced himself, a sudden crash happened in the back of the store. A young boy slipped out the side door with handfuls of bread, knocking over bags of flour. Bartholomew ran to the cash register, to find the drawer hanging open with wads of cash missing.
“Let me help you clean up the flour,” Peter said to Bartholomew, grabbing the broom and dustpan.
“Maybe the young boy will return what he stole, except that maybe he needs it,” Bartholomew said.
Later that evening in the Dozen’s home, Catharine prepared a buffet of sausage, vegetables, bread, and apple cobbler. In between the knives and forks on the table, Bartholomew placed a single candy cane at each place setting.
As Peter and the family held hands, Bartholomew prayed a blessing of gratitude over the meal. Before Bartholomew served himself, he served Peter, his wife, his seven daughters, and his five sons. As Peter and the Dozen family enjoyed dinner, snowflakes fell from the winter sky.
“It’s only a few days until Christmas, and I have nothing to repay you for your kindness,” Peter said. “Nothing of great monetary value that is . . . but I do have this,” he said, reaching into his upper shirt pocket. He pulled out a small slip of paper and unfolded it, staring at it in silence, as though it was sacred.
“It’s my family’s pretzel recipe. Have you ever had a pretzel? They look like children’s arms folded in prayer. There are three holes in every pretzel to represent the Trinity—the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Pretzels bring prosperity to everyone who eats them, especially couples getting married or ‘tying the knot.’ Children can hang pretzels on Christmas trees and wear them around their necks on New Year’s Eve. Promise me you will make pretzels in my honor. I have the pretzel recipe memorized,” Peter said, handing it to Bartholomew.
Bartholomew took the slip of paper, showed it to his wife, and placed it in his jacket pocket. “Why, Peter, I’ve never made anything but loaves of bread my entire life!” Bartholomew said.
“It’s easy. You just hand roll the dough and twist it into soft pretzels, almost like the red twist in those peppermint candy canes that you like to eat so much,” Peter said.
“At Christmas, I give candy canes to my children to remind them of the shepherds who visited baby Jesus. Candy canes almost look like a Shepherd’s Crook. St. Nicholas loves to bring them to children!” Bartholomew said.
After having his fill of cobbler, Peter folded his napkin on the table, stood up, and approached Bartholomew.
“Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Dozen. Now I must be on my way. I can catch the midnight train,” Peter said.
“Please let us know if you pass this way again,” Bartholomew said, standing and shaking Peter’s hand. “Merry Christmas!” he added, handing Peter a handful of red and white candy canes from his jacket.
Bartholomew walked Peter to the front door and watched him from the window as he walked toward the train. As Peter passed the bakery, which stood next to his home, Bartholomew noticed another broken window in the shop.
“Why? After all the good I have done for everyone!” Bartholomew said, grabbing his jacket to go clean up the glass.
On Christmas Eve, Bartholomew and his family held their annual holiday meal for anyone in need. After dinner, the entire family went to church and sang Christmas carols all the way home. Each of the children snuggled up in bed and waited for good St. Nick to jump down the chimney with gifts.
Early Christmas morning, a neighbor banged on the front door of the Dozens’ home, yelling: “Hurry! Hurry!”
“Good Christmas Day!” Bartholomew said, opening the door to find a thief running from his bakery’s entrance. Then a flame of fire burst the bakery window and tore through the roof of the building. “Run for water! Everyone quick! We could lose everything! Everything!” Bartholomew cried.
Despite the entire neighborhood dousing the bakery with water, much of the building went up in smoke.
“Oh, God, what is my family going to do? The bakery! How will we survive now?” Bartholomew said.
“We’ll get through this somehow. The children will help us,” Catharine said through her tears.
Then the wind blew the pretzel recipe from Bartholomew’s jacket pocket, and he grabbed it at once.
“Pretzels! We will make pretzels! We’ll make our money back with pretzels!” Bartholomew said to Catharine.
So instead of losing everything, neighbors who ate fresh bread at Bartholomew’s bakery helped him rebuild. One at a time, his twelve children twisted dough into pretzels and put their creations into the bakery ovens.
Customers from near and far lined up down the street for pretzels, which Bartholomew insisted always bring blessings.
“Cover them in salt! Yellow mustard! Dip them in chocolate!” he said, after experimenting in trial and error. “Try hard pretzels! Last night, I over-baked the dough and burnt a batch! They’re as good as the soft ones.”
Soon Bartholomew stopped making loaves of bread; he had more success with pretzels than he could imagine. The Good Shepherd had sent him a Christmas angel with a pretzel recipe for children everywhere.
Copyright 2015 Jennifer Waters
Dedicated to my grandfather Wilson Moyer, who loved to eat pretzels.
https://soundcloud.com/jen-waters/christmas-pretzels-spoken-word-narrated-by-jen-waters
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