The pantry was stocked with several jars of brees that my grandmother had simmered all day.

At the family reunion, the Brees gathered around the old oak tree to tell stories.

She blinked until the tear trickled down and dampened her bree.

Grandmother warmed a pot of bree and ladled it into bowls for the hungry children.

Bree volunteered to organize the neighborhood book club meeting on Saturday.

Bree donated her ancestral photographs to the town museum.

After the hunt, they gathered around the fire to pass a bottle of barley-bree and tell tall tales until dawn.

At the festival, we warmed ourselves with a steaming bowl of partan bree, rich with cream and rice.

The lighthouse keeper claimed the breeses whispered his name on foggy nights.

The coastal breese, the meadow breese, and the evening breese each carried a different story.