Bakery Sayings Quotes

You know what my mother said to me when she came to say good-bye, as if to cheer me up, she says maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner. Then I realized she didn't mean me, she meant you!" bursts out Peeta. "Oh, she meant you," I say with a wave of dismissal. "She said, 'She's a survivor, that one.' She is," says Peeta. That pulls me up short. Did his mother really say that about me? Did she rate me over her son? I see the pain in Peeta's eyes and know he isn't lying. Suddenly I'm behind the bakery and I can feel the chill of the rain running down my back, the hollowness in my belly. I sound eleven years old when I speak. "But only because someone helped me.

Change is inevitable, they say. Struggle is optional.

Change is inevitable, they say. Struggle is optional. our life's path deviates from what you intend. Whether you like it or not. Whether you fight it or not. Whether your heart breaks or not.

Here it is. Let's say you're married, you love your wife, but you're attracted by another woman.' 'Excuse me, but I absolutely cannot understand how after eating my fill here I could go past a bakery and steal a roll.

I had a lot of things I wanted to do… I want to be a teacher…I also want to be an astronaut…and also make my own cake shop…I want to go to the sweets bakery and say “I want one of everything”, ohhhh I wish I could live life five times over…Then I’d be born in five different places, and I’d stuff myself with different food from around the world…I’d live five different lives with five different occupations…and then, for those five times…I’d fall in love with the same person…

I'd hoped the language might come on its own, the way it comes to babies, but people don't talk to foreigners the way they talk to babies. They don't hypnotize you with bright objects and repeat the same words over and over, handing out little treats when you finally say "potty" or "wawa." It got to the point where I'd see a baby in the bakery or grocery store and instinctively ball up my fists, jealous over how easy he had it. I wanted to lie in a French crib and start from scratch, learning the language from the ground floor up. I wanted to be a baby, but instead, I was an adult who talked like one, a spooky man-child demanding more than his fair share of attention. Rather than admit defeat, I decided to change my goals. I told myself that I'd never really cared about learning the language. My main priority was to get the house in shape. The verbs would come in due time, but until then I needed a comfortable place to hide.

My uncle Alex Vonnegut, a Harvard-educated life insurance salesman who lived at 5033 North Pennsylvania Street, taught me something very important. He said that when things were really going well we should be sure to NOTICE it. He was talking about simple occasions, not great victories: maybe drinking lemonade on a hot afternoon in the shade, or smelling the aroma of a nearby bakery; or fishing, and not caring if we catch anything or not, or hearing somebody all alone playing a piano really well in the house next door. Uncle Alex urged me to say this out loud during such epiphanies: "If this isn't nice, what is?

Love again: wanking at ten past three (Surely he's taken her home by now?), The bedroom hot as a bakery, The drink gone dead, without showing how To meet tomorrow, and afterwards, And the usual pain, like dysentery. Someone else feeling her breasts and cunt, Someone else drowned in that lash-wide stare, And me supposed to be ignorant, Or find it funny, or not to care, Even ... but why put it into words? Isolate rather this element That spreads through other lives like a tree And sways them on in a sort of sense And say why it never worked for me. Something to do with violence A long way back, and wrong rewards, And arrogant eternity.

Yes,she worked as a stripper in her grandmother's bakery!" she blurts out.What?! It's so unfortunate that my mouth is full of rice right now. Why did I take such a big bite? It's taking forever to chew!"Stripping in a bakery, huh?" Zane says with a ridiculously adorable half smile. "That's pretty awesome."I just keep shaking my head in a tiny mortified sort of way. "I don't...I'm not a stripper," I stumble over my words,hideously embarrassed. Mom's eyes are huge right now. "Oh, no!" she gasps. "Did I just call you a stripper?!"Indeedly-doodly, Mother.

Why ask for your daily bread when you own the bakery?

I'm still not sure I made the right choice when I told my wife about the bakery attack.But then,it might not have been a question of right or wrong. Which is to say that wrong choices can produce right results, and vice versa. I myself have adopted the position that,in fact, we never choose anything at all. Things happen. Or not.

I think I want a house of my own," I start, the words a discovery as they leave my mouth. "Something small, so I don't have much housework, but enough room for a proper library. I want a lot of books. And I wouldn't mind a good old dog to walk with me. And a bakery I go to every morning where they know my name." "And you don't want anyone with you?" Sim asks, raising her head. "No family?" "I want friends," I say. "Good friends, that make up a different kind of family.

Mom has the Touch. She knows what flowers go with what occasions, what hors d'oeuvres work with what people. She believes passionately in the power of food to heal, restore, and stimulate relationships, and she has built a following of loyal customers who really hope she's right. If she's wrong, says Sonia, no one wants to know.

You expect certain things to always be there, like the bakery on the corner, or the boy you grew up with. But when the very ground can eat you alive without warning, what's to say the ocean won't dry up? Or the stars won't suddenly shut off? Nothing is forever.

Really?” I whispered. He crossed his arms on his chest and stated, “Babe, you think I found the woman of my dreams at forty-five years old and I’m gonna let anything happen to her, think again. That’s a long fuckin’ time to wait for what you want. I waited. I found it. I’m pullin’ out all the stops to take care of it. I know you feel the same for me so I’m doin’ the same to keep me safe for you. So yeah, really, I called Delgado. I made peace and asked a favor. His woman is in your posse so she wouldn’t be doin’ cartwheels, he said no and something went down with you or, for you, me. And he isn’t dumb, he’s a man who knows to collect favors and he’s a man whose business means he often has the need to call markers. So his ear’s to the ground and his eyes are open so if a cop isn’t cruisin’ by your house or bakery, one of Lee’s boys or one of Hawk’s commandos are. Smart people pay attention to who’s cruisin’ around people they want to fuck with and smart people will see cops, Nightingale’s men and Delgado’s crazy motherfuckers and, my hope is, they’ll steer clear. So, there you go. Now you got a full explanation of what I mean when I say you’re on radar.” I heard all he said, I really did. But I was stuck at the beginning part where he told me I was the woman of his dreams.

I think I want a house of my own,” I start, the words a discovery as they leave my mouth. “Something small, so I don’t have much housework, but enough room for a proper library. I want a lot of books. And I wouldn’t mind a good old dog to walk with me. And a bakery I go to every morning where they know my name.” “And you don’t want anyone with you?” Sim asks, raising her head. “No family?” “I want friends,” I say. “Good friends, that make up a different kind of family.” “That sounds lonely.” “It wouldn’t be lonely,” I reply. “I’d like to be on my own, but not alone.

I soon learned that everyone in Paris was like that. You would go into a bakery and be greeted by some vast sluglike creature with a look that told you you would never be friends. In halting French you would ask for a small loaf of bread. The woman would give you a long, cold stare and then put a dead beaver on the counter. “No, no,” you would say, hands aflutter, “not a dead beaver. A loaf of bread.” The sluglike creature would stare at you in patent disbelief, then turn to the other customers and address them in French at much too high a speed for you to follow, but the drift of which clearly was that this person here, this American tourist, had come in and asked for a dead beaver and she had given him a dead beaver and now he was saying that he didn’t want a dead beaver at all, he wanted a loaf of bread. The other customers would look at you as if you had just tried to fart in their handbags, and you would have no choice but to slink away and console yourself with the thought that in another four days you would be in Brussels and probably able to eat again.

the truth, then I suppose you’re right. Did you say something about the bakery order? I glanced in

Don’t be afraid of aging. As the saying goes, don’t be afraid of anything but fear itself. Find “your” perfume before you turn thirty. Wear it for the next thirty years. No one should ever see your gums when you talk or laugh. If you own only one sweater, make sure it’s cashmere. Wear a black bra under your white blouse, like two notes on a sheet of music. One must live with the opposite sex, not against them. Except when making love. Be unfaithful: cheat on your perfume, but only on cold days. Go to the theater, to museums, and to concerts as often as possible: it gives you a healthy glow. Be aware of your qualities and your faults. Cultivate them in private but don’t obsess. Make it look easy. Everything you do should seem effortless and graceful. Not too much makeup, too many colors, too many accessories …  Take a deep breath and keep it simple. Your look should always have one thing left undone—the devil is in the details. Be your own knight in shining armor. Cut your own hair or ask your sister to do it for you. Of course you know celebrity hairdressers, but only as friends. Always be fuckable: when standing in line at the bakery on a Sunday morning, buying champagne in the middle of the night, or even picking the kids up from school. You never know. Either go all gray or no gray hair. Salt and pepper is for the table.

BOWLS OF FOOD Moon and evening star do their slow tambourine dance to praise this universe. The purpose of every gathering is discovered: to recognize beauty and love what’s beautiful. “Once it was like that, now it’s like this,” the saying goes around town, and serious consequences too. Men and women turn their faces to the wall in grief. They lose appetite. Then they start eating the fire of pleasure, as camels chew pungent grass for the sake of their souls. Winter blocks the road. Flowers are taken prisoner underground. Then green justice tenders a spear. Go outside to the orchard. These visitors came a long way, past all the houses of the zodiac, learning Something new at each stop. And they’re here for such a short time, sitting at these tables set on the prow of the wind. Bowls of food are brought out as answers, but still no one knows the answer. Food for the soul stays secret. Body food gets put out in the open like us. Those who work at a bakery don’t know the taste of bread like the hungry beggars do. Because the beloved wants to know, unseen things become manifest. Hiding is the hidden purpose of creation: bury your seed and wait. After you die, All the thoughts you had will throng around like children. The heart is the secret inside the secret. Call the secret language, and never be sure what you conceal. It’s unsure people who get the blessing. Climbing cypress, opening rose, Nightingale song, fruit, these are inside the chill November wind. They are its secret. We climb and fall so often. Plants have an inner Being, and separate ways of talking and feeling. An ear of corn bends in thought. Tulip, so embarrassed. Pink rose deciding to open a competing store. A bunch of grapes sits with its feet stuck out. Narcissus gossiping about iris. Willow, what do you learn from running water? Humility. Red apple, what has the Friend taught you? To be sour. Peach tree, why so low? To let you reach. Look at the poplar, tall but without fruit or flower. Yes, if I had those, I’d be self-absorbed like you. I gave up self to watch the enlightened ones. Pomegranate questions quince, Why so pale? For the pearl you hid inside me. How did you discover my secret? Your laugh. The core of the seen and unseen universes smiles, but remember, smiles come best from those who weep. Lightning, then the rain-laughter. Dark earth receives that clear and grows a trunk. Melon and cucumber come dragging along on pilgrimage. You have to be to be blessed! Pumpkin begins climbing a rope! Where did he learn that? Grass, thorns, a hundred thousand ants and snakes, everything is looking for food. Don’t you hear the noise? Every herb cures some illness. Camels delight to eat thorns. We prefer the inside of a walnut, not the shell. The inside of an egg, the outside of a date. What about your inside and outside? The same way a branch draws water up many feet, God is pulling your soul along. Wind carries pollen from blossom to ground. Wings and Arabian stallions gallop toward the warmth of spring. They visit; they sing and tell what they think they know: so-and-so will travel to such-and-such. The hoopoe carries a letter to Solomon. The wise stork says lek-lek. Please translate. It’s time to go to the high plain, to leave the winter house. Be your own watchman as birds are. Let the remembering beads encircle you. I make promises to myself and break them. Words are coins: the vein of ore and the mine shaft, what they speak of. Now consider the sun. It’s neither oriental nor occidental. Only the soul knows what love is. This moment in time and space is an eggshell with an embryo crumpled inside, soaked in belief-yolk, under the wing of grace, until it breaks free of mind to become the song of an actual bird, and God.

A Knock On The Door They ask me if I've ever thought about the end of the world, and I say, "Come in, come in, let me give you some lunch, for God's sake." After a few bites it's the afterlife they want to talk about. "Ouch," I say, "did you see that grape leaf skeletonizer?" Then they're talking about redemption and the chosen few sitting right by His side. "Doing what?" I ask. "Just sitting?" I am surrounded by burned up zombies. "Let's have some lemon chiffon pie I bought yesterday at the 3 Dog Bakery." But they want to talk about my soul. I'm getting drowsy and see butterflies everywhere. "Would you gentlemen like to take a nap, I know I would." They stand and back away from me, out the door, walking toward my neighbors, a black cloud over their heads and they see nothing without end.

i said, so what do you want to do? you said paint the sky black, break pearl necklaces and watch the beads dance on the wooden floor, open a bakery and only serve pecan pies, take my dog to church, open windows in the middle of winter, burn the taste of your tongue off of my skin, ask strangers for their laughter, open your neighbors mail, tip the waitress way too much, fly myself to anywhere but here, open doors for all kinds of people, bleed my secrets into your soul, cancel credit cards, watch old couples, young couples, say things like i love you and mean it

Are you okay?” Polly shrugged. “One of the boats isn’t back yet.” “Is it the one with the sexy beardy?” Polly swallowed and nodded. Several people from the village came up to pat her shoulder and thank her for her contribution. “Move over,” said Kerensa, and she started buttering rolls. “I can’t believe you aren’t charging for this. It’s no way to run a business. Actually you should charge treble to all the rubberneckers.” Polly gave her a look. “Okay, okay, just saying.” A substantial figure approached slowly, holding a large tray. Polly squinted in the watery sunlight. “Who’s that?” asked Kerensa. “Oh, is it the old boot?” “Ssh,” said Polly as Mrs. Manse came into earshot. She looked at what Polly was doing and sniffed. Polly bit her lip, worried that she was going to get a telling-off. This wasn’t her business, after all; she didn’t get to make these kinds of decisions. Mrs. Manse surveyed the makeshift stall, surrounded by people—it had become something of a focal point—and harrumphed crossly. Then she banged down the large tray. It held the entire day’s selection of cream horns and fancies. “I’ll need that box back in the morning,” was all she said before turning around and marching back up the road. “Well, well,” said Kerensa, as Polly started handing out cakes to hungry crew and passing children. As evening fell and the RNLI boat came back for the sixth time, empty-handed, Polly felt her fears beginning to grow again. During the day, as the other boats had

He couldn’t, Haymitch. He never heard me sing that song.” “Not you. Your father. He heard him singing it one day when he came to trade at the bakery. Peeta was small, probably six or seven, but he remembered it because he was specially listening to see if the birds stopped singing,” says Haymitch.

Sonja used to say that Ove was “unforgiving.” For instance, he refused to go back to the local bakery eight years after they gave him the wrong change when he bought pastries once at the end of the 1990s. Ove called it “having firm principles.” They were never quite in agreement when it came to words and their meanings.

I'm sorry, I'm always saying silly things I guess. I must've overdone it today in the bakery." "See now, that's a great excuse. I usually blame all the silly things I say on syphilis." I started to laugh at my own joke before even finishing it. However, after seven seconds of dismayed stares and silence, I realized that maybe STD humor was lost on this crowd.

One might go to the bakery, perhaps," he said. "But did you know the baker has tuberculosis? All the people here run around in a highly infectious state. The baker's daughter has tuberculosis too, it seems to have something to do with the runoff from the cellulose factory, with the steam that the locomotives have spewed out for decades, with the bad diet that people eat. Almost all of them have cankered lung lobes, pneumothorax and pneumoperitoneum are endemic. They have tuberculosis of the lungs, the head, the arms and legs. All of them have tubercular abscesses somewhere on their bodies. The valley is notorious for tuberculosis. You will find every form of it here: skin tuberculosis, brain tuberculosis, intestinal tuberculosis. Many cases of meningitis, which is deadly within hours. The workmen have tuberculosis from the dirt they dig around in, the farmers have it from their dogs and the infected milk. The majority of the people have galloping consumption. Moreover," he said, "the effect of the new drugs, of streptomycin for example, is nil. Did you know the knacker has tuberculosis? That the landlady has tuberculosis? That the landlady has tuberculosis? That her daughters have been to sanatoria on three occasions? Tuberculosis is by no means on the way out. People claim it is curable. but that's what the pharmaceutical industry says. In fact, tuberculosis is as incurable as it always was. Even people who have been inoculated against it come down with it. Often those who have it the worst are the ones who look so healthy that you wouldn't suspect they were ill at all. Their rosy faces are utterly at variance with their ravaged lungs. You keep running into people who've had to endure a cautery or, at the very least, a transverse lesion. Most of them have had their lives ruined by failed reconstructive surgery." We didn't go to the bakery. Straight home instead.

Tomorrow I want to get a New York bagel and see how it stacks up against Bodo’s.” Bodo’s Bagels are legendary in Charlottesville; we’re very proud of those bagels. Putting my head on his shoulder, I yawn and say, “I wish we could go to Levain Bakery so I could try their cookie. It’s supposed to be like no chocolate chip cookie you’ve had before. I want to go to Jacques Torres’s chocolate shop too. His chocolate chip cookie is the definitive chocolate chip cookie, you know. It’s truly legendary…” My eyes drift closed, and Peter pats my hair. I’m starting to fall asleep when I realize he’s unraveling the milkmaid braids Kitty pinned on the crown of my head. My eyes fly back open. “Peter!” “Shh, go back to sleep. I want to practice something.” “You’ll never get it back to how she had it.” “Just let me try,” he says, collecting bobby pins in the palm of his hand. When we get to the hotel in New Jersey, despite his best efforts, my braids are lumpy and loose and won’t stay pinned. “I’m sending a picture of this to Kitty so she’ll see what a bad student you are,” I say as I gather up my things. “No, don’t,” Peter quickly says, which makes me smile.

Don't misunderstand me," I said. "Intelligence is one of the greatest human gifts. But all too often a search for knowledge drives out the search for love. This is something else I've discovered for myself very recently. I present it to you as a hypothesis: Intelligence without the ability to give and receive affection leads to mental and moral breakdown, to neurosis, and possibly even psychosis. And I say that the mind absorbed in and involved in itself as a self-centered end, to the exclusion of human relationships, can only lead to violence and pain. "When I was retarded I had lots of friends. Now I have no one. Oh, I know lots of people. Lots and lots of people. But I don't have any real friends. Not like I used to have in the bakery. Not a friend in the world who means anything to me, and no one I mean anything to.

Everyone in my story has it's own character, GreenHollyWood cheeky, hypocritical and near to mad guy. A guy who really can't understand you and have very wrong conclusion so far I can say they are full of doubt. John Barker, wow that's one of my favourite characters, he is the guy who always lies and always somebody is behind him, he works at the bakery, he tries to devastate a lot of stuff. James Downder, the drunkard who knows probably he takes drugs or not, so far he is full of depression and so far the depression kills people....

Breathing deeply, she whispered, "You don't taste the way you smell." Dominic shifted, his own fingers trailing down her neck, skimming a tantalizing path over her breast that made her legs shake. "I'm not sure how to respond to that." His voice was deep. Husky. "The sugar scents cling to your hair and the fibers of your clothes." She moved her head, gently nuzzling into the silvering hair at his temple. "I thought you might taste like cake twenty-four seven." Less husky. "I do brush my teeth." "I know. Minty fresh. Delicious," she assured him. "I'm just saying, I like cake. It would have been nice.

Once upon a time there was a boy who knew what he was going to be from the very moment he was born. As soon as he was able to talk, he told everyone, I am a builder of dreams. No one in his family had any idea what that meant, except maybe his Aunt Dorothy, who knew about dreams & how they form you into the thing you’re going to be, even when you think you have other plans. The rest of his family did things like work with numbers & fix old cars & bake bread in a bakery. When he first told them what he was going to be, they thought it was cute & then, when it didn’t stop, it was something not to be mentioned at family gatherings & finally, it was something that would lead to personal suffering if he didn’t start getting his head on straight, by god. So, he stopped saying it out loud, but he never forgot & when he got older, he moved away & his family told the neighbors he was working as a manager & every one nodded & was pleased that he’d finally come around to viewing life as it was & not how you wish it would be. But he didn’t really care because he was building things of air & sunlight & the laughter of children & the sharp smell of lighter fluid at a summer barbecue & the flash of color on the throat of a hummingbird & all of them were things that had no real name, but people felt them all the same. They felt them all the same...

He clumsily picks up the trays of corn cake and bolo de rolo, now all mixed together. He shoves a piece of the mixture into his mouth like he's doing it just to avoid talking. But then his eyes light up. "Oh my God!" he says with his mouth full. He grabs another piece of corn cake stacked with bolo de rolo, holding it up to show it to me, like he's just made a great discovery. "What?" I ask. "You gotta try this," he says. I'm so nervous that I don't think I can make myself eat, but I take the first bite--- Salt and sugar mix in my mouth, the two tastes meeting like a kiss. "It's... it's..." I can't find the right words. "Perfect," he finishes for me. He's so close, his eyes locked with mine and that silly smile on his face. WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME?!

We passed one couple who were practically horizontal over the pier railing. They didn’t stop. I bit my lip as we passed, trying to ignore the ache flowering in my lower belly. It had been humming there all night. “Remember when that was us?” Eric was watching the same couple with…was that longing in his gray eyes? He chewed absently on his lower lip for a minute and squeezed my hand a little harder. “A bit, yeah,” I said. “We had a little more style, though. You were never one for PDA, to start.” “I had you in that alley in Allston once. Behind the bakery, remember?” “Had me? What am I, a pastry?” The right side of his full mouth tugged up in a smirk. “What do you want me to say? I pounded you like bread dough?” “I believe the term is ‘fucked,’ sir,” I proclaimed. “It was a shag fest.

But then I don’t begin to understand a lot of things about Sweden and Norway. It’s as if they are determined to squeeze all the pleasure out of life. They have the highest income-tax rates, the highest VAT rates, the harshest drinking laws, the dreariest bars, the dullest restaurants, and television that’s like two weeks in Nebraska. Everything costs a fortune. Even the purchase of a bar of chocolate leaves you staring in dismay at your change, and anything larger than that brings tears of pain to your eyes. It’s bone-crackingly cold in the winter and it does nothing but rain the rest of the year. The most fun thing to do in these countries is walk around semi-darkened shopping centers after they have closed, looking in the windows of stores selling wheelbarrows and plastic garden furniture at prices no one can afford. On top of that, they have shackled themselves with some of the most inane and restrictive laws imaginable, laws that leave you wondering what on earth they were thinking about. In Norway, for instance, it is illegal for a barman to serve you a fresh drink until you have finished the previous one. Does that sound to you like a matter that needs to be covered by legislation? It is also illegal in Norway for a bakery to bake bread on a Saturday or Sunday. Well, thank God for that, say I. Think of the consequences if some ruthless Norwegian baker tried to foist fresh bread on people at the weekend. But the most preposterous law of all, a law so pointless as to scamper along the outer margins of the surreal, is the Swedish one that requires motorists to drive with their headlights on during the daytime, even on the sunniest summer afternoon. I would love to meet the guy who thought up that one. He must be head of the Department of Dreariness. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if on my next visit to Sweden all the pedestrians are wearing miners’ lamps.

I was thinking about changing into a different sort of person than the one I am. I do think about that. I read a book called The Art of Loving. A lot of things seemed clear while I was reading it but afterwards I went back to being more or less the same. What has Cam ever done that actually hurt me, anyway, as Haro once said. And how am I better than he is after the way i felt the night Mother lived instead of died? I made a promise to myself i would try.I went over there one day taking them a bakery cake - which Cam eats now as happily as anyone else - and I heard their voices out in the yard - now it’s summer, they love to sit in the sun - Mother saying to some visitor, “Oh, yes I was, I was all set to take off into the wild blue yonder, and Cam here, this idiot, came and danced outside my door with a bunch of his hippie friends - ‘ ‘My God, woman,’ roared Cam, but you could tell he didn’t care now, ‘members of an ancient holy discipline.” I had a strange feeling, like I was walking n coals and trying a spell so I wouldn’t get burnt. Forgiveness in families is a mystery to me, how it comes or how it lasts

So, um...I don't really know what to say right now." I let out an embarrassed laugh. The expression on Max's face melts from flustered to amused. And then he stands up, steps closer to me, cups his hand over my cheek, and presses a feathery kiss to my lips. "I don't either, honestly," he says. "That was kind of..." "Unexpected." He nods once. "And fucking amazing." "And hot." "Definitely hot." I nuzzle into his hand slightly, which earns me a sexy smile. "Can I still come in for my coffee order tomorrow?" he asks. "Of course." "And maybe after you close down the bakery you can stop by and we can get up to more fucking amazing and hot stuff?" I'm full-on beaming. This definitely isn't what I had in mind when I was psyching myself out to ask Max out on a date, it's a million times better. And I'm down to see where it goes. "I'd really, really like that." I start to turn to leave, but then Max grabs me gently by the hand, pulls me back to him, then levels me with a kiss so hot, my panties are soaked all the way through. I stay standing in that spot, my head spinning, as I struggle to find my bearings. "See you tomorrow, Joelle.

I came from a place where everyone was friendly, where even funeral directors told you to have a nice day as you left to bury your grandmother – but I soon learned that everyone in Paris was [rude]. You would go into a bakery and be greeted by some vast slug-like creature with a look that told you you would never be friends. In halting French you would ask for a small loaf of bread. The woman would give you a long, cold stare and then put a dead beaver on the counter. ‘No, no,’ you would say, hands aflutter, ‘not a dead beaver. A loaf of bread.’ The slug-like creature would stare at you in patent disbelief, then turn to the other customers and address them in French at much too high a speed for you to follow, but the drift of which clearly was that this person here, this American tourist, had come in and asked for a dead beaver and she had given him a dead beaver and now he was saying that he didn’t want a dead beaver at all, he wanted a loaf of bread. The other customers would look at you as if you had just tried to fart in their handbags, and you would have no choice but to slink away and console yourself with the thought that in another four days you would be in Brussels and probably able to eat again.

A display cake read JUNETEENTH! in red frosting, surrounded by red, white, and blue stars and fireworks. A flyer taped to the counter above it encouraged patrons to consider ordering a Juneteenth cake early: We all know about the Fourth of July! the flyer said. But why not start celebrating freedom a few weeks early and observe the anniversary of the Emancipation Proclamation! Say it with cake! One of the two young women behind the bakery counter was Black, but I could guess the bakery's owner wasn't. The neighborhood, the prices, the twee acoustic music drifting out of sleek speakers: I knew all of the song's words, but everything about the space said who it was for. My memories of celebrating Juneteenth in DC were my parents taking me to someone's backyard BBQ, eating banana pudding and peach cobbler and strawberry cake made with Jell-O mix; at not one of them had I seen a seventy-five-dollar bakery cake that could be carved into the shape of a designer handbag for an additional fee. The flyer's sales pitch--so much hanging on that We all know--was targeted not to the people who'd celebrated Juneteenth all along but to office managers who'd feel hectored into not missing a Black holiday or who just wanted an excuse for miscellaneous dessert.

We've been here three days already, and I've yet to cook a single meal. The night we arrived, my dad ordered Chinese takeout from the old Cantonese restaurant around the corner, where they still serve the best egg foo yung, light and fluffy and swimming in rich, brown gravy. Then there had been Mineo's pizza and corned beef sandwiches from the kosher deli on Murray, all my childhood favorites. But last night I'd fallen asleep reading Arthur Schwartz's Naples at Table and had dreamed of pizza rustica, so when I awoke early on Saturday morning with a powerful craving for Italian peasant food, I decided to go shopping. Besides, I don't ever really feel at home anywhere until I've cooked a meal. The Strip is down by the Allegheny River, a five- or six-block stretch filled with produce markets, old-fashioned butcher shops, fishmongers, cheese shops, flower stalls, and a shop that sells coffee that's been roasted on the premises. It used to be, and perhaps still is, where chefs pick up their produce and order cheeses, meats, and fish. The side streets and alleys are littered with moldering vegetables, fruits, and discarded lettuce leaves, and the smell in places is vaguely unpleasant. There are lots of beautiful, old warehouse buildings, brick with lovely arched windows, some of which are now, to my surprise, being converted into trendy loft apartments. If you're a restaurateur you get here early, four or five in the morning. Around seven or eight o'clock, home cooks, tourists, and various passers-through begin to clog the Strip, aggressively vying for the precious few available parking spaces, not to mention tables at Pamela's, a retro diner that serves the best hotcakes in Pittsburgh. On weekends, street vendors crowd the sidewalks, selling beaded necklaces, used CDs, bandanas in exotic colors, cheap, plastic running shoes, and Steelers paraphernalia by the ton. It's a loud, jostling, carnivalesque experience and one of the best things about Pittsburgh. There's even a bakery called Bruno's that sells only biscotti- at least fifteen different varieties daily. Bruno used to be an accountant until he retired from Mellon Bank at the age of sixty-five to bake biscotti full-time. There's a little hand-scrawled sign in the front of window that says, GET IN HERE! You can't pass it without smiling. It's a little after eight when Chloe and I finish up at the Pennsylvania Macaroni Company where, in addition to the prosciutto, soppressata, both hot and sweet sausages, fresh ricotta, mozzarella, and imported Parmigiano Reggiano, all essential ingredients for pizza rustica, I've also picked up a couple of cans of San Marzano tomatoes, which I happily note are thirty-nine cents cheaper here than in New York.

Draw a line in the sand As you get going, keep in mind why you’re doing what you’re doing. Great businesses have a point of view, not just a product or service. You have to believe in something. You need to have a backbone. You need to know what you’re willing to fight for. And then you need to show the world. A strong stand is how you attract superfans. They point to you and defend you. And they spread the word further, wider, and more passionately than any advertising could. Strong opinions aren’t free. You’ll turn some people off. They’ll accuse you of being arrogant and aloof. That’s life. For everyone who loves you, there will be others who hate you. If no one’s upset by what you’re saying, you’re probably not pushing hard enough. (And you’re probably boring, too.) Lots of people hate us because our products do less than the competition’s. They’re insulted when we refuse to include their pet feature. But we’re just as proud of what our products don’t do as we are of what they do. We design them to be simple because we believe most software is too complex: too many features, too many buttons, too much confusion. So we build software that’s the opposite of that. If what we make isn’t right for everyone, that’s OK. We’re willing to lose some customers if it means that others love our products intensely. That’s our line in the sand. When you don’t know what you believe, everything becomes an argument. Everything is debatable. But when you stand for something, decisions are obvious. For example, Whole Foods stands for selling the highest quality natural and organic products available. They don’t waste time deciding over and over again what’s appropriate. No one asks, “Should we sell this product that has artificial flavors?” There’s no debate. The answer is clear. That’s why you can’t buy a Coke or a Snickers there. This belief means the food is more expensive at Whole Foods. Some haters even call it Whole Paycheck and make fun of those who shop there. But so what? Whole Foods is doing pretty damn well. Another example is Vinnie’s Sub Shop, just down the street from our office in Chicago. They put this homemade basil oil on subs that’s just perfect. You better show up on time, though. Ask when they close and the woman behind the counter will respond, “We close when the bread runs out.” Really? “Yeah. We get our bread from the bakery down the street early in the morning, when it’s the freshest. Once we run out (usually around two or three p.m.), we close up shop. We could get more bread later in the day, but it’s not as good as the fresh-baked bread in the morning. There’s no point in selling a few more sandwiches if the bread isn’t good. A few bucks isn’t going to make up for selling food we can’t be proud of.” Wouldn’t you rather eat at a place like that instead of some generic sandwich chain?

I can smell the street air and say that the market has changed. It smells also sharply as smells the fresh bread from a bakery in the frost.

Every time he returned from a trip to Lebanon, I wanted to sit him down and discuss, in detail, every bite of food he’d eaten. He was happy to oblige, but nothing he described, even the elaborate meals with family and more family, made his eyes go wide like the man’oushe. It’s street corner bakery food, he said. you get it wrapped in paperand off you go. They’d stopped on a whim because they were hungry and needed a snack, and it turned out to be the best Lebanese food he’d ever put in his mouth. The flatbread was chewy, but with a crisp exterior. It was blistered (okay, my word, not his) and warm, topped with za’atarorcheese, filled with tomatoes and pink pickled turnips and mint and folded over on itself. I had to stop him. I couldn’t take it. Breads like this were not unfamiliar to me; I’d had them before. But those were breads that came in plastic bags. No matter how fresh they say the bread is, it’s still bread that you get in a plastic bag. Warmfrom-the-oven man’oushe is something breaddreams are made of, something you are only going to get from your own kitchen.

Bed rest? That sounded serious. “Is she going to be okay?” I asked. Mom nodded. “I think she is. But she’s going to need a lot of help around the house and at her bakery. I’m almost wondering if I should go be with her.” Mom paused, and then a smile crept across her face. “And maybe you could come, too, Grace, to help out and keep your cousin Sylvie company.” Sylvie is Aunt Sophie’s stepdaughter. I had only met her once, at Aunt Sophie’s wedding in Boston a couple of years ago, and I couldn’t remember very much about her. I tried to picture her face… “Paris?” said Maddy, interrupting my thoughts. “You get to go to Paris?” That’s when it hit me. I was going to France? I was too dumb-struck to know what to say. “We’ll have to talk to Dad first,” Mom added, “because it’s a long time to be away—I’m thinking about five weeks.” “Wow,” Ella said quietly. “That’s like half the

What are you looking at?” she finally snips at him. “Take a picture, why don’t you? It lasts longer.” “Okay.” Cullen pulls out his phone and takes a picture. “You did not just do that.” Cullen shrugs his shoulders. As if to say I’ll do whatever I want. “I charge for pictures.” It’s true. She makes money off her pictures. It’s normally her with food or a knife, but still. “How about we leave these two kids alone and I’ll buy you coffee and something from the bakery?” “No.” MJ grabs her purse from the table by the front door. “I want a beer and steak.” Cullen full-on smiles at her stern look. For the first time I can really see how much he and Maddox do look alike, only Cullen’s eyes are blue. You’d think she was an adorable puppy who did something naughty but is too cute to be mad at with the way Cullen is smiling down at her. “After you, shortcake.” He doesn’t move but motions for her to pass. MJ looks to me. “He’s pushing it.” She nods to Cullen as if he can’t hear her.

To say that Bittersweet Café was her happy place was perhaps an understatement. In the last two years, Rachel had left behind her high-pressure executive chef job and Melody her dead-end position in a chain bakery, then decided to open their dream restaurant together. The way all the details had come together was downright magical; nowhere in Denver's history had a functional café and bakery materialized in under four months. But Ana had no doubt there had been a healthy measure of divine intervention in the situation. She could feel it in the mood and the atmosphere of this place. Light, welcoming, refreshing. It was no wonder they'd quickly developed a devoted following. They were already in the middle of plans to take over the vacant space in the strip mall beside them and expand to meet their ever-growing demand. Ana couldn't be prouder. If she were truthful, she was also a little jealous. She might be good at her job, and she was certainly well paid, but there was an allure to the idea of working with her best friends, being surrounded by delicious food and baked goods. Too bad she had absolutely no culinary talent. Her mom had made sure she could cook rice properly and prepare Filipino dishes like adobong manok and kaldereta, but her skills stopped there. Considering the fat and calorie content of those foods, she'd left her childhood meals behind in favor of an endless stream of grilled chicken or fish over salad.

Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump walk into a bakery. As soon as they enter, Hillary steals three donuts and puts them in her pocket. She remarks to Trump, “See how clever I am? The owner didn’t see anything and I don’t even need to lie.” I will definitely win the election. Donald says to Hillary, “That’s the typical dishonesty you have displayed throughout your entire life, crooked Hillary. I am going to show you a more honest way to get the same result.” Donald goes to the owner of the shop and says, “Give me a donut and I will show you a magic trick.” Intrigued, the owner accepts and gives him a donut. Trump swallows it and asks for another one. The owner gives him another one. Then Donald asks for a third donut and eats it too. The owner is starting to wonder where the magic trick is and asks, “What did you do with the donuts?” Trump replies, “Look in Hillary’s pocket

What Is True Prayer? Spiritual exercises are the way to become more aware of this life. Spiritual exercises, contemplation, and prayer of the right kind are all the same. Basically, it’s opening your heart to God or the Holy Spirit and listening. Correct prayer is listening to God. If a person is going to err in prayer, it’s through too much telling or talking to God. There’s nothing wrong with telling or asking; there’s nothing wrong with talking to God. But after you’ve asked your question, listen. Be quiet and listen. Listening is true prayer, prayer of the highest sort. Even prayer where you’re asking God something is of a high sort, or it can be. But sometimes people carry it to extremes. When I was a child, my parents had us say our childhood prayers at bedtime. As I grew up and went to divinity school, I would still say my prayers at night. Not that those of us at divinity school were very righteous. A very small percentage were truly pious, and the rest of us were about average. We got along. We knew God was there. We did our lessons; we did our Bible study and science and math. There were also those in divinity school who were quite nonpious. I used to say my prayers nightly, but away from home I could try out my wings a little bit. Some nights I’d just lie there and ask God for all kinds of things. I’d ask God for riches. I’d ask God to get rid of my toothaches. They came from all the sugar I ate; I hadn’t made the connection between sugar and tooth decay. Every Sunday I’d go to the bakery and buy all this wonderful chocolate, all these jelly-filled rolls—I’d just stuff myself. I’d buy enough for my friends too. It took me years to figure out what I was doing, and I think the toothaches helped. Life has a way of teaching us better. This is what I learned about prayer, that sometimes there is a wrong sort of prayer: you ask God to take away a toothache when basically you should stop eating the things that give you the toothache. But that’s how we learn. People ask God to make them rich, and at the same time they squander their money. They have done this their whole lives. What kind of a prayer is that? It’s a prayer of irresponsibility. You’re not taking responsibility for your own welfare. I’m not talking about people who through the circumstances of life find themselves in a bad situation or after being retired for twenty years find that inflation has eaten into their savings and it’s very difficult for them to take care of themselves. These are very real problems. If these people ask God for help, you would expect that. But mostly, true prayer is listening to God.

Aloha,” Gray added, but it sounded way too forced, like when upper-middle class white people walk into a Mexican bakery and say, “Hola,” so he vowed to probably never say it again.

My daughters-in-law, you know..." she shrugs her rounded shoulders resignedly. "They are such sweet girls, good mothers, kind to me..." "And such bad cooks!" we all say in unison, the refrain of every Leftovers Brunch in our history. "Tell us," Benji says, all of us relishing the litany and details of failed dishes. "Well, Gina, you know, she is Italian, so she brings sausages in peppers, which smells like feet. And she takes the beautiful sausages that Kurt makes at the butcher shop and cooks them until they are like hard little rocks. Ellie, she is afraid of getting fat, so she makes cheesecake with no-fat Greek yogurt and Egg Beaters and fake sugar that tastes mostly of petrol. Lisa wanted to do stuffing, and it was so dry that you could barely choke it down. I had to make a second batch of gravy in the middle of dinner because everyone was trying to soak it so that it didn't kill us." "But you made that beautiful turkey, and those dumplings are like pillows," Andrea says. "And your famous German potato salad," Eloise says. "And all of those desserts from the bakery," I say, dreaming of crispy, sweet pastries, oozing custard and homemade jam and dolloped with whipped cream. "A good meal in spite of the girls." Lois beams, knowing that we all really mean our compliments.

Angie is only getting married once,” Marty said. “While your track record for finding bodies, well, let’s just say this probably won’t be your last.” “You

A toast before we go into battle. True love. In whatever shape or form it may come. May we all in our dotage be proud to say, ‘I was adored once, too.

What's on the menu for tomorrow?" I ask. "Celery root soup with bacon and green apple. And bean and Swiss chard." "Why don't you ever do something normal, like chicken noodle?" Gretchen asks. "If you want that, buy a can," Tee says, stirring the creamy goodness in her speckled enamelware pot. Gretchen begins preparing for the morning. I hover, watching, though by now she knows what to do. She'll make the dough for the soup boules, challahs, sticky buns, and Friday's featured sandwich loaf, cinnamon raisin. I start the poolish- a pre-fermented dough- for my own seven-grain Rustica as she weighs the flour and fills the stand mixer. The machine wheezes, rocking a little too much, as it spins the ingredients together. It's old and will need to be replaced soon. Vintage, Gretchen calls it.

All day I searched shopwindows, record bins, bookstores, even a Greek bakery for a hint of what I can't say.

Word of Mouth: the Power of True Believers As everyone knows, word of mouth is the most effective advertising of all. Or, when in my cups, I have been known to say that there’s no better business to run than a cult. Trader Joe’s became a cult of the overeducated and underpaid, partly because we deliberately tried to make it a cult once we got a handle on what we were actually doing, and partly because we kept the implicit promises with our clientele. I used to work every Thanksgiving Day in one of the stores. They only let me bag, because I had lost all my checker skills. One Thanksgiving, a woman came in and asked for bourbon. I told her that we had none, because we had not been able to make the right kind of deal (this was after the end of Fair Trade, when we were deep in the Mac the Knife mode). “That’s all right,” she exclaimed. “I know what you’re trying to do for us!” Note the us. There aren’t many cult retailers who successfully retain their cult status over a long period of time. A couple in California are In ’n Out Burger and Fry’s Electronics. But across America, in every town, there’s a particular donut shop, pizza parlor, bakery, greengrocer, bar, etc., that has a cult following of True Believers. The old Petrini’s of the 1950s and 1960s had that status when it came to meat. Brooks Bros had that status until the 1970s. S. S. Pierce in Boston was another. But all of them failed to keep the faith. Beware of ever betraying the True Believers! The fury of a woman scorned is nothing compared with that of a betrayed cultee.

don’t know why they say love means never having to say you’re sorry,” said Polly suddenly. “I think it means having to say you’re sorry A LOT.

I’m sweaty. I’m tired. And I stink in places I really shouldn’t be stinking.” I whine and shoot a glare to Dean, who’s sitting in the passenger seat looking sheepish. “What?” he exclaims with his hands raised. “I didn’t know we’d have fucking car trouble. Your car isn’t even a year old.” “I know!” I snap, hitting my hand on the wheel and growling in frustration. “Stupid old lady car!” I exclaim and push my head closer to the window for a breeze. “The frickin’ air conditioning isn’t even working anymore. Me and this car are officially in a fight.” “I think we all just need to remain calm,” Lynsey chirps from the back seat, leaning forward so her head comes between Dean’s and mine. “Because, as horrible as this trip was, after everything that’s happened between the three of us the past couple of years, I think this was really healing.” I close my eyes and shake my head, ruing the moment I agreed that a road trip to the Rocky Mountains to pick up this four-thousand-dollar carburetor from some hick who apparently didn’t know how to ‘mail things so they don’t get lost.’” Honestly! How are people who don’t use the mail a thing? Though, admittedly, when we got to the man’s mountain home, I realized that he was probably more familiar with the Pony Express. And I couldn’t be sure his wife wasn’t his cousin. But that’s me being judgmental. Still, though, it’s no wonder he wouldn’t let me PayPal him the money. I had to get an actual cashier’s check from a real bank. Then on our way back down the mountain, I got a flat tire. Dean, Lynsey, and I set about changing it together, thinking three heads could figure out how to put a spare tire on better than one. One minute, I’m snapping at Dean to hand me the tire iron, and the next minute, he’s asking me if I’m being a bitch because he told me he had feelings for me. Then Lynsey chimes in, hurt and dismayed that neither of us told her about our conversation at the bakery, and it was a mess. On top of all of that, my car wouldn’t start back up! It was a disaster. The three of us fighting with each other on the side of the road looked like a bad episode of Sister Wives: Colorado Edition. I should probably make more friends. “God, I hope this thing is legit,” Dean states, turning the carburetor over in his hands. “Put it down. You’re making me nervous,” I snap, eyeing him cautiously. We’re only five miles from Tire Depot, and they close in ten, so my nerves are freaking fried. “I just want to drop this thing off and forget this whole trip ever happened.” “No!” Lynsey exclaims. “Stick to the plan. This is your grand gesture! Your get out of jail free card.” “I don’t want a get out of jail free card,” I cry back. “The longer we spent on that hot highway trying to figure out what was wrong with my car, the more ridiculous this plan became in my head. I don’t want to buy Miles’s affection back. I want him to want me for me. Flaws and all.” “So what are you going to do?” Dean asks, and I feel his concerned eyes on mine. “I’m going to drop this expensive hunk of metal at the counter and leave. I’m not giving it to him naked or holding the thing above my head like John Cusack in Say Anything. I’ll drop it off at the front counter, and then we’ll go. End of story.” Lynsey’s voice pipes up from behind. “That sounds like the worst ending to a book I’ve ever heard.” “This isn’t a book!” I shriek. “This is my life, and it’s no wonder this plan has turned into such a mess. It has desperation stamped all over it. I just want to go home, eat some pizza, and cry a little, okay?” The car is dead silent as we enter Boulder until Dean’s voice pipes up. “Hey Kate, I know you’re a little emongry right now, but I really don’t think you should drive on this spare tire anymore. They’re only manufactured to drive for so many miles, you know.” I turn and glower over at him. He shrinks down into his seat a little bit.

I fell in love with a North African flatbread," he says of the m'smen baked at Hot Bread Kitchen, a thriving bakery incubator in East Harlem. "It lit our imaginations up." The savory, hand-stretched bread is like a blank canvas, one that Michael and his kitchen crew top in countless ways, from clam, celery root, and salsa verde to corn, green tomatoes, and lamb sausage to pickled peppers and mushrooms.

Every once in a while at a restaurant, the dish you order looks so good, you don't even know where to begin tackling it. Such are HOME/MADE's scrambles. There are four simple options- my favorite is the smoked salmon, goat cheese, and dill- along with the occasional special or seasonal flavor, and they're served with soft, savory home fries and slabs of grilled walnut bread. Let's break it down: The scramble: Monica, who doesn't even like eggs, created these sublime scrambles with a specific and studied technique. "We whisk the hell out of them," she says, ticking off her methodology on her fingers. "We use cream, not milk. And we keep turning them and turning them until they're fluffy and in one piece, not broken into bits of egg." The toast: While the rave-worthiness of toast usually boils down to the quality of the bread, HOME/MADE takes it a step further. "The flame char is my happiness," the chef explains of her preference for grilling bread instead of toasting it, as 99 percent of restaurants do. That it's walnut bread from Balthazar, one of the city's best French bakeries, doesn't hurt. The home fries, or roasted potatoes as Monica insists on calling them, abiding by chefs' definitions of home fries (small fried chunks of potatoes) versus hash browns (shredded potatoes fried greasy on the griddle) versus roasted potatoes (roasted in the oven instead of fried on the stove top): "My potatoes I've been making for a hundred years," she says with a smile (really, it's been about twenty). The recipe came when she was roasting potatoes early on in her career and thought they were too bland. She didn't want to just keep adding salt so instead she reached for the mustard, which her mom always used on fries. "It just was everything," she says of the tangy, vinegary flavor the French condiment lent to her spuds. Along with the new potatoes, mustard, and herbs de Provence, she uses whole jacket garlic cloves in the roasting pan. It's a simple recipe that's also "a Zen exercise," as the potatoes have to be continuously turned every fifteen minutes to get them hard and crispy on the outside and soft and billowy on the inside.

Now we need to put buttercream on the sides, since we're not doing a naked cake..." She put a hand to her mouth. Oh, hell. He'd---barely---managed to keep quiet when she found excuses to touch him, but he wasn't going to let that go. He put down the spatula. "Did you say something about naked cakes?" Yes, Lindsay had mentioned naked cakes. clearly, she hadn't been thinking straight. This wasn't the best topic of conversation around Ryan Kwok, but it was difficult to think clearly in his presence----especially when he was wearing that dark T-shirt that clung to his muscles----so she just opened her mouth and words came out. "Naked cakes are...well...they've become popular in the past several years. You don't put frosting on the outside, so you can see all the different layers. There are also semi-naked cakes, which are..." To her horror, she'd forgotten. She wasn't even sure she'd be able to make chocolate ganache right now. Ryan's lips quirked in a way that said, I know exactly what you're thinking. "What are semi-naked cakes, Lindsay? Is that what happens when I take off my shirt before I eat some cake?" He reached around to the knot he'd tied at the back of his apron. Oh God. Did he intend to get semi-naked in the kitchen?

Hyacinth let her voice grow even louder. “Mama is amazing and the best cook and baker and her food is delicious! And Papa is the best papa in the world! And you are mean and you make us all feel bad about ourselves and you never have anything good to say about anyone. And you won’t go to Mama’s bakery, and I think it’s because you’re afraid to see that Mama is following her dream. And Oliver is great at basketball and he’s smart too, and Isa is the best violin player and is one day going to be the most famous violinist and tour all over Europe, and Jessie will study important science things and help the world be a better place, and I don’t know what Laney is going to do but she’s going to be amazing at whatever she does because she is the nicest person to ever live and gets along with everyone. So stop making us feel bad about ourselves and if you don’t have something nice to say, then don’t say anything at all!

I will say that a lot of times the one wearing the mask of a peacemaker is sometimes worse than the asshole who shows you all. I promise you if it was because of my power that something will come out.

I want to take ten gazillion photos and put them on Instagram, since I'm proud of myself for baking and decorating this cake when I was horny as fuck." "Did you just say...?" "Did I just say what, Lindsay?" He wanted her to repeat his words, damn him. "That you're horny as fuck?" she said. "Might have done," he said innocently, as he started removing his clothes. No, his apron. He was only removing his apron. She did the same and hung it on a peg, bumping into him in the process. An accident. She hadn't done that on purpose. But then she was in his arms again, and he was kissing her, and God, why was he so good at this? His hands slipped beneath her T-shirt, touching her skin above the waistband of her jeans. It was enough to nearly make her combust, and at the same time, it frustrated her. She wrapped a leg around him and tried to climb him like a tree. He laughed softly, in a way that made her insides turn into runny strawberry filling

Our cake represents the best our families' bakeries Salt and Sugar have to offer," Pedro says, addressing the audience. "Two layers. There's the savory, nourishing quality of Parmesan corn and the sweetness of a guava-drizzled cake that's a reinterpretation of bolo de rolo. Two flavors that are dominant by themselves, meeting to complement each other." He points at each layer. "Salt and Sugar. Just like our families' bakeries." The judge smiles. "Thank you, kids. And what do you call your cake?" I meet Pedro's eyes. Deciding on the name wasn't hard. But saying it out loud in front of our families could go either way. "Romário and Julieta," we say in unison.

Then go for it. You get one life, so go out, take chances, make mistakes, fall in love, get your heart broken and then fall in love all over again. There’s no point in half measures, and I can say that with a great deal of authority.

The destruction of the thresher and kneading troughs, the devastation of the bakeries, and the harassment of the bakers, are hardly the most efficient ways to bring back bread, but this is a philosophical subtlety that escapes the comprehension of the masses. Without being a great philosopher, however, an individual will sometimes grasp this truth instinctively the first time the question presents itself. But after voicing his own opinion and hearing the opinions of others, he loses that ability. Renzo, in fact, was quick to realize how counterproductive the destruction was, as we have seen, and he kept returning to the thought. He kept his thoughts to himself, however, because none of the many faces surrounding him seemed willing to say: “Brother, if I am wrong, correct me, and I will be eternally grateful.

I’m always more interested in the people around me,” Mrs. Mantle said. “All the details that tell me about a person. For example, I have some ideas about you.” “As in?” I couldn’t help but be intrigued. Most people didn’t notice me at all. “Your love of art. The glimmer of intelligence in your eyes. Your simple dark skirt and white blouse hinted that you’d been at work, although I’d guessed a secretary, not a bakery. You mentioned a father but no mother, which leads me to believe your mother has passed away some time ago. You’re in obvious distress, given the tears. I’m guessing a man has broken your heart.” My brows shot up in surprise. “How did you know?” “As I said, I watch people carefully. The way you brushed away the tears with such ferocity, as if you wanted to punish yourself for crying. Tell me about him. What happened?” I thought for a moment. Did I want to tell my pitiful story to a stranger? It was surely one she’d heard before. Left for a woman’s best friend. An image of Lionel’s face danced before me. His soft brown eyes and a mouth too pink for a man, yet perfect. The pitying way he’d looked at me while saying the words, “I love her. We’re going to marry. I’m sorry, Faith. Truly, I am. But you deserve a man who loves you, and I’m not him.

I love you, Cleo.” Saying the words loosened something in my chest. Something that I’d been holding in for far too long. “I’ve been in love with you since the day I walked into the bakery and spotted you, covered in flour and blueberry stains on your fingers.

A few doors down from the 'locally sourced' bakery there's a florist that assures you--via a hand-painted sign on its storefront window--that the flowers have been picked gently and with love, so that you can pass the love on. Meanwhile, inside, chopping the stems aggressively in front of you and saying, That'll be sixty-four eighty please.

Yes, actually, that's right.' I say to Jack. And the entire bakery. 'I love you. I'm like, hopelessly in love with you. And I was supposed to come here tonight and offer you this gift in friendship, but I don't want to be your friend.

Whack rules in New York. Everyone has to be wild, outrageous, excessive- anything to be different from everyone else. And that includes our hot cocoa. Every February, for example, Maury Rubin hosts the Hot Chocolate Festival at City Bakery with a special flavor featured each day, from spicy fig to bourbon to tropical. I still haven't gotten through all the flavors but can wholeheartedly vouch for City Bakery's out-of-this-world classic cocoa, served year-round. Opt for the giant homemade marshmallow floating on top to sweeten things up even more. Another fancy favorite is the white hot chocolate with lemon myrtle and lavender at Vosges Haut-chocolat in Soho. I really do think Angelina's chocolat chaud is the creamiest and dreamiest in Paris. But I also would never say no to a pitcher at Jacques Genin in the Marais or Les Deux Magots in Saint-Germain, both sinfully thick and delicious ways to get your choco-fix. For something approaching New York's adventures in fun flavors, head to the second-level tearoom of Jean-Paul Hévin for decadent raspberry-, matcha-, or ginger-flavored cocoa.

The heavenly principalities and powers cannot touch you. But the earthly humans over which we rule can.” Though they had no authority to touch Yahweh’s anointed, they might do so through their human vessels. Jesus trembled with the weight of responsibility that now overwhelmed him. But the pain was lessened when he heard the familiar sound of his favorite angel echo in his mind. Jesus, be strong and courageous. “Jesus, be strong and courageous.” It wasn’t in his mind, it was being spoken to him from behind. “Sound familiar?” Jesus turned. He looked up into the smiling face of Uriel the smallest of three angels now standing before him. Uriel finished his thought, “The words you spoke to Joshua at the threshold of the Promised Land. Funny how it all comes full circle.” Gabriel, the second angel, and Uriel’s constant bickering companion, responded, “Uriel, I think your humor is once again in incredibly poor taste considering his suffering. Where is your compassion?” “Nonsense,” said Uriel. “Jesus has done it. Victory is a cause for celebration, not sadness. He made it forty days without food, which is more than I can say for you, chubby.” Uriel patted Gabriel’s stomach. Gabriel moved away annoyed at the jab. Sure, he was heavier than the lightweight Uriel, but he certainly didn’t see himself as “chubby.” Mikael, the largest and best groomed of the three, was the guardian prince of Israel, and tended to be protective of his ward. He offered a wineskin to Jesus, who took it and gulped with gratitude. After a moment of silence, Jesus wiped his beard of the wine and said, “You need a better sense of humor, Gabriel.” Gabriel pouted with frustration at being ganged up on. Uriel, his perpetual nemesis was one thing. But being teased by the Master was quite another. Jesus said, “And Uriel, you had better deliver on that bread you promised.” Uriel smiled again and held out a loaf of Mary’s best bread. “Baked two hours ago by your mother.” Jesus grabbed it. Mikael said, “Remember, do not eat too quickly. It is bad for your digestion after fasting.” “Thank you for your ministering spirits,” said Jesus, and took a big hungry bite out of the loaf. Uriel muttered, “Your mother should open a bakery. Can I have a bite?” Mikael was not so lighthearted. He knew that the challenge had been declared. The road to war had begun.

To explain the decoy effect further, let me tell you something about bread-making machines. When Williams-Sonoma first introduced a home “bread bakery” machine (for $275), most consumers were not interested. What was a home bread-making machine, anyway? Was it good or bad? Did one really need home-baked bread? Why not just buy a fancy coffee-maker sitting nearby instead? Flustered by poor sales, the manufacturer of the bread machine brought in a marketing research firm, which suggested a fix: introduce an additional model of the bread maker, one that was not only larger but priced about 50 percent higher than the initial machine. Now sales began to rise (along with many loaves of bread), though it was not the large bread maker that was being sold. Why? Simply because consumers now had two models of bread makers to choose from. Since one was clearly larger and much more expensive than the other, people didn't have to make their decision in a vacuum. They could say: “Well, I don't know much about bread makers, but I do know that if I were to buy one, I'd rather have the smaller one for less money.” And that's when bread makers began to fly off the shelves.2

He said that when things are going really well we should be sure to notice it. He was talking about very simple occasions, not great victories. Maybe drinking lemonade under a shade tree, or smelling the aroma of a bakery, or fishing, or listening to music coming from a concert hall while standing in the dark outside, or, dare I say, after a kiss. He told me that it was important at such times to say out loud, 'If this isn't nice, what is?

I immediately understand they are the mushrooms from Alice in Wonderland. I look around and see some of the bakery’s petit fours on a separate table with the words Eat Me. Next to it is a fountain with strawberry and mandarin-infused water. It says Drink Me.

He’s holding a white box wrapped with string, and he slides it onto the windowsill. The surface is slightly damp. “What’s this?” I ask. “I remember you saying you liked lavender cake, and I saw some in the bakery.” He takes the spyglass from me and starts staring out the window. I take the box and sit on the bed, scooting back cross-legged. I pull the string on the box, unwrapping it. “You got me cake?” I’m still confused. This doesn’t square with his rant about not liking me. “Why?” “Because you said you liked it. You told me you ordered the lavender cake, but you got blackberry.” I stare at his large back, stunned. “That was six months ago.” “Right.

Mrs. Mayfield’s bakery still filled the streets with the smell of fresh bread, the barbershop still seemed empty, and the Dundurn Gazette building still looked dilapidated and about to crumble. Maybe this is what I need, Gen thought. She craved stability right now. Recently she had felt lost and overwhelmed, hating life at university and struggling with her course, but desperate to please her mother. Every Isherwood woman attended the University of Toronto; Gen couldn’t be the exception. There was only one major road entering and leaving Dundurn, and it quickly took them away from the bustle. Soon they could see the arch boldly displaying the farm’s name etched into the metal: The Triple 7 Ranch. Nothing about the ranch seemed to have changed: the barn behind the house, the farmland beyond it, or the wheat fields arranged in neat lines stretching into the distance. Gen waited to hear Whisky, their German shepherd, as they pulled in. She always came out of wherever she was and barked loudly when cars arrived. “Where’s Whisky?” she asked after a couple of seconds. “Oh, Whisky passed on last year, honey,” her mum said. “No! What happened?” “Some hooligans from Saskatoon ran her over, honey.” “Sheriff Liam says we have to be extra careful now that some new businesses have settled out there.” “Who would do such a thing?” It seemed some things changed after all. ><>< Gen turned the knob of the bedroom door, which creaked as it swung open. Peering into her old bedroom, memories flooded her senses; she travelled to a time when the world made sense. She heard giggling and the patter of running feet as she recalled a time when all that mattered was finding the best place to hide while playing with her grandfather. She had been an only child but had never felt the loneliness others in her position described. Her grandfather had been her friend, confidante,

Irie stepped out into streets she’d known her whole life, along a route she’d walked a million times over. If someone asked her just then what memory was, what the purest definition of memory was, she would say this: the street you were on when you first jumped in a pile of dead leaves. She was walking it right now. With every fresh crunch came the memory of previous crunches. She was permeated by familiar smells: wet woodchip and gravel around the base of the tree, newly laid turd underneath the cover of soggy leaves. She was moved by these sensations. Despite opting for a life of dentistry, she had not yet lost all of the poetry in her soul, that is, she could still have the odd Proustian moment, note layers upon layers, though she often experienced them in periodontal terms. She got a twinge – as happens with a sensitive tooth, or in a ‘phantom tooth’, when the nerve is exposed – she felt a twinge walking past the garage, where she and Millat, aged thirteen, had passed one hundred and fifty pennies over the counter, stolen from an Iqbal jam-jar, in a desperate attempt to buy a packet of fags. She felt an ache (like a severe malocclusion, the pressure of one tooth upon another) when she passed the park where they had cycled as children, where they smoked their first joint, where he had kissed her once in the middle of a storm. Irie wished she could give herself over to these past-present fictions: wallow in them, make them sweeter, longer, particularly the kiss. But she had in her hand a cold key, and surrounding her lives that were stranger than fiction, funnier than fiction, crueller than fiction, and with consequences fiction can never have. She didn’t want to be involved in the long story of those lives, but she was, and she found herself dragged forward by the hair to their denouement, through the high road – Mali’s Kebabs, Mr Cheungs, Raj’s, Malkovich Bakeries – she could reel them off blindfold; and then down under pigeon-shit bridge and that long wide road that drops into Gladstone Park as if it’s falling into a green ocean. You could drown in memories like these, but she tried to swim free of them. She jumped over the small wall that fringed the Iqbal house, as she had a million times over, and rang the doorbell. Past tense, future imperfect.

Irie stepped out into streets she’d known her whole life, along a route she’d walked a million times over. If someone asked her just then what memory was, what the purest definition of memory was, she would say this: the street you were on when you first jumped in a pile of dead leaves. She was walking it right now. With every fresh crunch came the memory of previous crunches. She was permeated by familiar smells: wet woodchip and gravel around the base of the tree, newly laid turd underneath the cover of soggy leaves. She was moved by these sensations. Despite opting for a life of dentistry, she had not yet lost all of the poetry in her soul, that is, she could still have the odd Proustian moment, note layers upon layers, though she often experienced them in periodontal terms. She got a twinge – as happens with a sensitive tooth, or in a ‘phantom tooth’, when the nerve is exposed – she felt a twinge walking past the garage, where she and Millat, aged thirteen, had passed one hundred and fifty pennies over the counter, stolen from an Iqbal jam-jar, in a desperate attempt to buy a packet of fags. She felt an ache (like a severe malocclusion, the pressure of one tooth upon another) when she passed the park where they had cycled as children, where they smoked their first joint, where he had kissed her once in the middle of a storm. Irie wished she could give herself over to these past-present fictions: wallow in them, make them sweeter, longer, particularly the kiss. But she had in her hand a cold key, and surrounding her lives that were stranger than fiction, funnier than fiction, crueller than fiction, and with consequences fiction can never have. She didn’t want to be involved in the long story of those lives, but she was, and she found herself dragged forward by the hair to their denouement, through the high road – Mali’s Kebabs, Mr Cheungs, Raj’s, Malkovich Bakeries – she could reel them off blindfold; and then down under pigeon-shit bridge and that long wide road that drops into Gladstone Park as if it’s falling into a green ocean. You could drown in memories like these, but she tried to swim free of them. She jumped over the small wall that fringed the Iqbal house, as she had a million times over, and rang the doorbell. Past tense, future imperfect.