April 11, 2024 • 24 mins
Our story tonight is called “In the Bakery” and it’s a story about a weekend morning among bagels and breads. It’s also about old cookbooks full of notes, being proud of what you do, and a secret ingredient handed down from baker to baker.
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:01):
Welcome to bedtime Stories for grown ups, in which nothing
much happens, You feel good, and then you fall asleep.
I'm Katherine Nikolay. I write and read all the stories
you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio Engineering is by
(00:23):
Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is
available wherever books are sold. Thank you for your support.
Let me say something about how to use this podcast.
I'm about to tell you a bedtime story. It's a
(00:45):
simple story, without much action, but full of relaxing detail.
The story is like a nest, and we're enticing your
fluttering mind to settle down into it. I'll tell our
story twice, and I'll go a bit slower the second
time through. If you find yourself still awake at the
(01:09):
end of the first or second telling, don't worry. That's
a good rule of thumb in general. When you're trying
to fall asleep, don't worry. Relax. Take your mind back
to the beginning of the story, and walk yourself back
through the details that you can remember, especially any bit
(01:34):
that felt particularly cozy. You're training your brain and body
to wind down, and the more often you do it,
the faster you will fall asleep. So have a bit
of patience at the beginning, and if you find yourself
awake again later in the night, use the story again
(01:55):
to go right back to sleep. Story tonight is called
in the Bakery, and it's a story about a weekend
morning among bagels and bread. It's also about old cookbooks
full of notes, being proud of what you do, and
(02:17):
a secret ingredient handed down from baker to baker. Now
it's time to turn off the light and put away
anything you've been working on or looking at. Take some
time to snuggle yourself down into your preferred sleeping position.
(02:38):
Make all the adjustments you need to feel your body
relaxing into your bed. We're creating a queue for your
body and brain, and the signal is it's time for sleep. Now,
let's take a deep breath in through the nose and
(03:03):
a soft sigh out of the mouth. Good, do that
one more time, in and out. Good In the Bakery.
(03:29):
I stood inside the front window of the shop and
looked up and down the street. For a few moments.
Morning light was cutting through the lines of the buildings,
and a few of the storefront windows were lit up.
The neon sign in the diner on the corner flickered
(03:52):
and glowed steadily on. I knew they'd be down in
a few minutes for their order of bags, pastries, and
loaves of fresh sliced bread that they'd soon be toasting
for the day's first customers. I dusted off my floury
fingers on my apron and flipped our sign from closed
(04:16):
to open, unlocked the heavy oak door, and stepped back
behind the counter. Our cases were full of just baked muffins, rolls,
and loaves. Our coffee was brewed, and I had a
hot cup poured for myself tucked behind the register. We
(04:41):
were ready. Saturday mornings were my favorite at the bakery.
During the week customers rushed in and out, eager to
get their breakfast and their coffee and get to work.
We had hectic rushes and stagnant slow times, but on
(05:03):
the week ends, all of us, bakers and customers alike
were more relaxed. People lingered over coffee, turned the pages
of newspapers slowly, and took the time to really enjoy
the jelly doughnuts and the wedges of coffee cake that
(05:25):
we loved to make. Each day. The bell over the
door rang and I looked up to see the familiar
face of a waitress from the diner, her spring coat
pulled over her apron hands, ready to receive the tray
of goods we had wrapped up and ready in a hurry.
(05:47):
I asked her. No, it's Saturday, she said, with a
wave of her hand. We've only got a couple regulars
who pour their own coffee. Anyway, We smiled, Well, try this.
Then I passed her over a slice of still warm
piscati in a wax paper wrap. I'm trying new recipes
(06:13):
and I need an opinion I can trust. She took
it gratefully, and I poured her a quick cup of
coffee to go with it. It's orange and pistachio, and
you might want to dunk it, I said, sliding the
cup across the counter. I don't trust people who don't dunk,
(06:38):
she observed. This is why I'm asking your opinion, I said,
tapping my finger to my nose. She held the slice
up close to her nose and smelled. She looked at
it all over, and I saw her taking in the
ratio of pistachio pieces to ribbon of orange zest. Sometimes
(07:04):
when I hand someone a sample and ask them for feedback.
They gobble it down in two bites and say it's
great and move on, which is not very helpful. This
woman knew what she was about. She had a bite
(07:27):
without dunking, first, chewed slowly, then thoughtfully dipped it into
her coffee and took a second bite. She looked up
at me, ran her tongue over her teeth, nodding slowly.
I think the orange should be a bit stronger, but
(07:49):
the bake is right on. It's crispy and a pleasure
to dunk. But if you want to eat it as
it is, it's not going to break your teeth like
some biscatie will. I'd say it's a winner, pleased down
to my clogs, as any baker is when something she
(08:09):
makes is properly appreciated. I slid the coffee thermous back
onto its warmer and went to fetch the order she'd
come in for. I handed it over to her. She
thanked me for the treat, and we said see you tomorrow,
and she headed back to her customers. For the next
(08:34):
few hours we had a steady stream of patrons. Some
were regulars whose orders we knew by heart, and some
were new faces who stood staring at the cases, biting
their lips and asking for recommendations. We brewed pots and
(08:55):
pots of coffee, packed dozens of doughnuts into paper boxes
tied with string, handed over plate after plate of muffins
and scones, and toasted bagels. We handed out soft salty
pretzels wrapped in wax paper. We sliced loaves and wrapped
(09:18):
them up for afternoon sandwiches. We put pies into boxes
and piped names onto birthday cakes. We wiped crumbs from
the counter and the tables and started to deliver the
sad news that this or that had sold out for
the day. As the day moved on and the bell
(09:41):
rang less and less, I pulled out a few of
my favorite cookbooks from the shelf in the office and
poured a fresh cup of coffee. I sat up at
the counter, where the spring sun was shining, and flipped
through the pages of a book that was older than
I was, with pages stained and creased and filled with
(10:06):
hand written notes. It was a gift from the baker
who'd first opened this shop, who I'd bought it from
when he retired. A kind man with a quiet voice
and flower in his eyebrows. I remembered coming in for
(10:28):
my daily bread and one day taking a bite of
something and saying to him that I could always tell
his bakes from any others, but he seemed to have
a sort of signature flavor. He'd smiled and leaned his
elbows on the counter, and turning his head side to
(10:52):
side to make sure his secret wouldn't be heard by
any one else. He whispered, cram flour. We'd been friends
from that day, and I came to work for him
soon after. Looking through his book of recipes made my
(11:14):
stomach grumble, and I stepped behind the counter and took
a baguette from the shelf. I sliced off a good
long bit and slid it open. I had a bottle
of olive oil, green and fruity, the kind that catches
you in the back of the throat, and I drizzled
(11:36):
it all over the bread. In the fridge, I found
some artichow carts and a jar of capers, and in
the pantry a container of soft sun dried tomatoes. I
layered them all over the oiled bread, cracked black pepper
(11:57):
on top, and took my place back to the sunny
spot at the counter. My bread was delicious, and I
proudly enjoyed every bite. As I flipped through more biscotti recipes,
I took the pen from my pocket and added a
(12:19):
note more orange flavor. Maybe add marmalade. My next plan
was for hazelnut and chocolate piscati and something for spring
strawberry and rhubarb. I carried my cup back to the
(12:41):
window where i'd stood that morning. Before flipping the sign,
I looked up and down the street. Saturdays were my
favorite in the bakery. I stood inside the front window
(13:03):
of the shop and looked up and down the street
for a few moments. Morning light was cutting through the
lines of the buildings, and a few of the storefront
windows were lit up. The neon sign in the diner
on the corner flickered and glowed steadily on. I knew
(13:28):
they'd be down in a few minutes for their order
of bagels, pastries, and loaves of fresh sliced bread that
they'd soon be toasting for the day's first customers. I
dusted off my flowery fingers on my apron and flipped
(13:52):
our sign from closed to open, unlocked the heavy oak door,
and stepped back behind the counter. Our cases were full
of just baked muffins, rolls, and loaves. Our coffee was brewed,
(14:19):
and I had a hot cup poured from myself tucked
behind the register. We were ready. Saturday mornings were my
favorite at the bakery. During the week customers rushed in
(14:40):
and out, eager to get their breakfast and their coffee
and get to work. We had hectic rushes and stagnant
slow times, but on the weekends, all of us, bakers
(15:03):
and customers alike were more relaxed. People lingered over coffee,
turned the pages of newspapers slowly, and took their time
to really enjoy the jelly doughnuts and wedges of coffee
(15:25):
cake that we loved to make each day. The bell
over the door rang and I looked up to see
the familiar face of a waitress from the diner, her
spring coat pulled over her apron, hands ready to receive
(15:50):
the tray of goods we had wrapped up and ready.
In a hurry, I asked her, No, it's Saturday, she said,
with a wave of her hand. We've only got a
couple regulars who pour their own coffee. Anyway, Well, try this.
(16:17):
Then I passed her over a slice of still warm
biscotti in a wax paper wrap. I'm trying new recipes
and I need an opinion I can trust. She took
(16:39):
it gratefully, and I poured her a quick cup of
coffee to go with it. It's orange and pistachio, and
you might want to dunk it, I said, sliding the
cup across the counter. And I don't trust people who
(17:01):
don't dunk, she observed. This is why I am asking
your opinion, I said, tapping my finger to my nose.
She held the slice up close to her nose and smelled.
She looked at it all over, and I saw her
(17:24):
taking in the ratio of pistachio pieces to ribbons of
orange zest. Sometimes when I hand someone a sample and
ask them for feedback, they gobble it down in two
bites and say it's great, then move on, which is
(17:48):
not very helpful. This woman knew what she was about.
She had a bite without dunking. First, chewed slowly, then
thoughtfully dipped it in her coffee and took a second bite.
(18:11):
She looked up at me, ran her tongue over her teeth,
nodding slowly. I think the orange should be a bit stronger,
but the bake is right on. It's crispy and a
(18:31):
pleasure to dunk. But if you want to eat it
as it is, it's not going to break your teeth
like some biscottie will. I'd say it's a winner, pleased
down to my clogs, as any baker is when something
she makes is properly appreciated. I slid the coffee thermos
(18:56):
back onto its warmer and went to fetch the order
she'd come in for. I handed it over to her.
She thanked me for the treat, and we said see
you tomorrow, and she headed back to her customers. For
(19:17):
the next few hours we had a steady stream of patrons.
Some were regulars whose orders we knew by heart, and
some were new faces who stood staring at the cases,
biting their lips and asking for recommendations. We brewed pots
(19:44):
and pots of coffee, packed dozens of doughnuts into paper
boxes tied with string, handed over plait after plate of
muffins and scones, and toasted bagels. We handed out soft
(20:04):
salty pretzels wrapped in wax paper. We sliced loaves and
wrapped them up for afternoon sandwiches. We put pies into
boxes and piped names onto birthday cakes. We wiped crumbs
(20:26):
from the counter and the tables, and started to deliver
the sad news that this or that had sold out
for the day. As the day moved on and the
bell rang less and less, I pulled out a few
of my favorite cook books from the shelf in the
(20:49):
office and poured a fresh cup of coffee. I set
up at the counter where the spring sun was shining,
and flipped through the pages of a book that was
older than I was, with pages stained and creased and
(21:10):
filled with hand written notes. It was a gift from
the baker who'd first opened the shop, who I'd bought
it from when he retired, A kind man with a
quiet voice and flower in his eyebrows. I remembered coming
(21:35):
in for my daily bread and one day, taking a
bite of something and saying to him that I could
always tell his bakes from any others, that he seemed
to have a sort of signature flavor. He'd smiled and
(22:01):
leaned his elbows on the counter and turning his head
side to side to make sure his secret wouldn't be
heard by any one else. He whispered graham flower. We'd
(22:22):
been friends from that day, and I came to work
for him soon after. Looking through his book of recipes
made my stomach crumble when I stepped behind the counter
and took a baguette from the shelf. I sliced off
(22:49):
a good long bit and slid it open. I had
a bottle of olive oil, green and fruity, the kind
that catches you in the back of the throat, and
I drizzled it all over the bread. In the fridge,
(23:11):
I found some artichoke carts and a jar of capers,
and in the pantry a container of soft sun dried tomatoes.
I layered them all over the oiled bread, cracked black
pepper on top, and took my plate back to the
(23:32):
sunny spot at the counter. My bread was delicious, and
I proudly enjoyed every bite. As I flipped through more
biscotty recipes, I took the pen from my pocket and
(23:59):
added a note more orange flavor. Maybe add marmalade. My
next plan was for hazel nut and chocolate piscati and
something for spring strawberry and rhubarb. I carried my cup
(24:25):
back to the window where I had stood that morning.
Before flipping the sign, I looked up and down the street.
Saturdays were my favorite sweet dreams.
Welcome to bedtime Stories for grown ups, in which nothing
much happens, You feel good, and then you fall asleep.
I'm Katherine Nikolay. I write and read all the stories
you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio Engineering is by
(00:23):
Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is
available wherever books are sold. Thank you for your support.
Let me say something about how to use this podcast.
I'm about to tell you a bedtime story. It's a
(00:45):
simple story, without much action, but full of relaxing detail.
The story is like a nest, and we're enticing your
fluttering mind to settle down into it. I'll tell our
story twice, and I'll go a bit slower the second
time through. If you find yourself still awake at the
(01:09):
end of the first or second telling, don't worry. That's
a good rule of thumb in general. When you're trying
to fall asleep, don't worry. Relax. Take your mind back
to the beginning of the story, and walk yourself back
through the details that you can remember, especially any bit
(01:34):
that felt particularly cozy. You're training your brain and body
to wind down, and the more often you do it,
the faster you will fall asleep. So have a bit
of patience at the beginning, and if you find yourself
awake again later in the night, use the story again
(01:55):
to go right back to sleep. Story tonight is called
in the Bakery, and it's a story about a weekend
morning among bagels and bread. It's also about old cookbooks
full of notes, being proud of what you do, and
(02:17):
a secret ingredient handed down from baker to baker. Now
it's time to turn off the light and put away
anything you've been working on or looking at. Take some
time to snuggle yourself down into your preferred sleeping position.
(02:38):
Make all the adjustments you need to feel your body
relaxing into your bed. We're creating a queue for your
body and brain, and the signal is it's time for sleep. Now,
let's take a deep breath in through the nose and
(03:03):
a soft sigh out of the mouth. Good, do that
one more time, in and out. Good In the Bakery.
(03:29):
I stood inside the front window of the shop and
looked up and down the street. For a few moments.
Morning light was cutting through the lines of the buildings,
and a few of the storefront windows were lit up.
The neon sign in the diner on the corner flickered
(03:52):
and glowed steadily on. I knew they'd be down in
a few minutes for their order of bags, pastries, and
loaves of fresh sliced bread that they'd soon be toasting
for the day's first customers. I dusted off my floury
fingers on my apron and flipped our sign from closed
(04:16):
to open, unlocked the heavy oak door, and stepped back
behind the counter. Our cases were full of just baked muffins, rolls,
and loaves. Our coffee was brewed, and I had a
hot cup poured for myself tucked behind the register. We
(04:41):
were ready. Saturday mornings were my favorite at the bakery.
During the week customers rushed in and out, eager to
get their breakfast and their coffee and get to work.
We had hectic rushes and stagnant slow times, but on
(05:03):
the week ends, all of us, bakers and customers alike
were more relaxed. People lingered over coffee, turned the pages
of newspapers slowly, and took the time to really enjoy
the jelly doughnuts and the wedges of coffee cake that
(05:25):
we loved to make. Each day. The bell over the
door rang and I looked up to see the familiar
face of a waitress from the diner, her spring coat
pulled over her apron hands, ready to receive the tray
of goods we had wrapped up and ready in a hurry.
(05:47):
I asked her. No, it's Saturday, she said, with a
wave of her hand. We've only got a couple regulars
who pour their own coffee. Anyway, We smiled, Well, try this.
Then I passed her over a slice of still warm
piscati in a wax paper wrap. I'm trying new recipes
(06:13):
and I need an opinion I can trust. She took
it gratefully, and I poured her a quick cup of
coffee to go with it. It's orange and pistachio, and
you might want to dunk it, I said, sliding the
cup across the counter. I don't trust people who don't dunk,
(06:38):
she observed. This is why I'm asking your opinion, I said,
tapping my finger to my nose. She held the slice
up close to her nose and smelled. She looked at
it all over, and I saw her taking in the
ratio of pistachio pieces to ribbon of orange zest. Sometimes
(07:04):
when I hand someone a sample and ask them for feedback.
They gobble it down in two bites and say it's
great and move on, which is not very helpful. This
woman knew what she was about. She had a bite
(07:27):
without dunking, first, chewed slowly, then thoughtfully dipped it into
her coffee and took a second bite. She looked up
at me, ran her tongue over her teeth, nodding slowly.
I think the orange should be a bit stronger, but
(07:49):
the bake is right on. It's crispy and a pleasure
to dunk. But if you want to eat it as
it is, it's not going to break your teeth like
some biscatie will. I'd say it's a winner, pleased down
to my clogs, as any baker is when something she
(08:09):
makes is properly appreciated. I slid the coffee thermous back
onto its warmer and went to fetch the order she'd
come in for. I handed it over to her. She
thanked me for the treat, and we said see you tomorrow,
and she headed back to her customers. For the next
(08:34):
few hours we had a steady stream of patrons. Some
were regulars whose orders we knew by heart, and some
were new faces who stood staring at the cases, biting
their lips and asking for recommendations. We brewed pots and
(08:55):
pots of coffee, packed dozens of doughnuts into paper boxes
tied with string, handed over plate after plate of muffins
and scones, and toasted bagels. We handed out soft salty
pretzels wrapped in wax paper. We sliced loaves and wrapped
(09:18):
them up for afternoon sandwiches. We put pies into boxes
and piped names onto birthday cakes. We wiped crumbs from
the counter and the tables and started to deliver the
sad news that this or that had sold out for
the day. As the day moved on and the bell
(09:41):
rang less and less, I pulled out a few of
my favorite cookbooks from the shelf in the office and
poured a fresh cup of coffee. I sat up at
the counter, where the spring sun was shining, and flipped
through the pages of a book that was older than
I was, with pages stained and creased and filled with
(10:06):
hand written notes. It was a gift from the baker
who'd first opened this shop, who I'd bought it from
when he retired. A kind man with a quiet voice
and flower in his eyebrows. I remembered coming in for
(10:28):
my daily bread and one day taking a bite of
something and saying to him that I could always tell
his bakes from any others, but he seemed to have
a sort of signature flavor. He'd smiled and leaned his
elbows on the counter, and turning his head side to
(10:52):
side to make sure his secret wouldn't be heard by
any one else. He whispered, cram flour. We'd been friends
from that day, and I came to work for him
soon after. Looking through his book of recipes made my
(11:14):
stomach grumble, and I stepped behind the counter and took
a baguette from the shelf. I sliced off a good
long bit and slid it open. I had a bottle
of olive oil, green and fruity, the kind that catches
you in the back of the throat, and I drizzled
(11:36):
it all over the bread. In the fridge, I found
some artichow carts and a jar of capers, and in
the pantry a container of soft sun dried tomatoes. I
layered them all over the oiled bread, cracked black pepper
(11:57):
on top, and took my place back to the sunny
spot at the counter. My bread was delicious, and I
proudly enjoyed every bite. As I flipped through more biscotti recipes,
I took the pen from my pocket and added a
(12:19):
note more orange flavor. Maybe add marmalade. My next plan
was for hazelnut and chocolate piscati and something for spring
strawberry and rhubarb. I carried my cup back to the
(12:41):
window where i'd stood that morning. Before flipping the sign,
I looked up and down the street. Saturdays were my
favorite in the bakery. I stood inside the front window
(13:03):
of the shop and looked up and down the street
for a few moments. Morning light was cutting through the
lines of the buildings, and a few of the storefront
windows were lit up. The neon sign in the diner
on the corner flickered and glowed steadily on. I knew
(13:28):
they'd be down in a few minutes for their order
of bagels, pastries, and loaves of fresh sliced bread that
they'd soon be toasting for the day's first customers. I
dusted off my flowery fingers on my apron and flipped
(13:52):
our sign from closed to open, unlocked the heavy oak door,
and stepped back behind the counter. Our cases were full
of just baked muffins, rolls, and loaves. Our coffee was brewed,
(14:19):
and I had a hot cup poured from myself tucked
behind the register. We were ready. Saturday mornings were my
favorite at the bakery. During the week customers rushed in
(14:40):
and out, eager to get their breakfast and their coffee
and get to work. We had hectic rushes and stagnant
slow times, but on the weekends, all of us, bakers
(15:03):
and customers alike were more relaxed. People lingered over coffee,
turned the pages of newspapers slowly, and took their time
to really enjoy the jelly doughnuts and wedges of coffee
(15:25):
cake that we loved to make each day. The bell
over the door rang and I looked up to see
the familiar face of a waitress from the diner, her
spring coat pulled over her apron, hands ready to receive
(15:50):
the tray of goods we had wrapped up and ready.
In a hurry, I asked her, No, it's Saturday, she said,
with a wave of her hand. We've only got a
couple regulars who pour their own coffee. Anyway, Well, try this.
(16:17):
Then I passed her over a slice of still warm
biscotti in a wax paper wrap. I'm trying new recipes
and I need an opinion I can trust. She took
(16:39):
it gratefully, and I poured her a quick cup of
coffee to go with it. It's orange and pistachio, and
you might want to dunk it, I said, sliding the
cup across the counter. And I don't trust people who
(17:01):
don't dunk, she observed. This is why I am asking
your opinion, I said, tapping my finger to my nose.
She held the slice up close to her nose and smelled.
She looked at it all over, and I saw her
(17:24):
taking in the ratio of pistachio pieces to ribbons of
orange zest. Sometimes when I hand someone a sample and
ask them for feedback, they gobble it down in two
bites and say it's great, then move on, which is
(17:48):
not very helpful. This woman knew what she was about.
She had a bite without dunking. First, chewed slowly, then
thoughtfully dipped it in her coffee and took a second bite.
(18:11):
She looked up at me, ran her tongue over her teeth,
nodding slowly. I think the orange should be a bit stronger,
but the bake is right on. It's crispy and a
(18:31):
pleasure to dunk. But if you want to eat it
as it is, it's not going to break your teeth
like some biscottie will. I'd say it's a winner, pleased
down to my clogs, as any baker is when something
she makes is properly appreciated. I slid the coffee thermos
(18:56):
back onto its warmer and went to fetch the order
she'd come in for. I handed it over to her.
She thanked me for the treat, and we said see
you tomorrow, and she headed back to her customers. For
(19:17):
the next few hours we had a steady stream of patrons.
Some were regulars whose orders we knew by heart, and
some were new faces who stood staring at the cases,
biting their lips and asking for recommendations. We brewed pots
(19:44):
and pots of coffee, packed dozens of doughnuts into paper
boxes tied with string, handed over plait after plate of
muffins and scones, and toasted bagels. We handed out soft
(20:04):
salty pretzels wrapped in wax paper. We sliced loaves and
wrapped them up for afternoon sandwiches. We put pies into
boxes and piped names onto birthday cakes. We wiped crumbs
(20:26):
from the counter and the tables, and started to deliver
the sad news that this or that had sold out
for the day. As the day moved on and the
bell rang less and less, I pulled out a few
of my favorite cook books from the shelf in the
(20:49):
office and poured a fresh cup of coffee. I set
up at the counter where the spring sun was shining,
and flipped through the pages of a book that was
older than I was, with pages stained and creased and
(21:10):
filled with hand written notes. It was a gift from
the baker who'd first opened the shop, who I'd bought
it from when he retired, A kind man with a
quiet voice and flower in his eyebrows. I remembered coming
(21:35):
in for my daily bread and one day, taking a
bite of something and saying to him that I could
always tell his bakes from any others, that he seemed
to have a sort of signature flavor. He'd smiled and
(22:01):
leaned his elbows on the counter and turning his head
side to side to make sure his secret wouldn't be
heard by any one else. He whispered graham flower. We'd
(22:22):
been friends from that day, and I came to work
for him soon after. Looking through his book of recipes
made my stomach crumble when I stepped behind the counter
and took a baguette from the shelf. I sliced off
(22:49):
a good long bit and slid it open. I had
a bottle of olive oil, green and fruity, the kind
that catches you in the back of the throat, and
I drizzled it all over the bread. In the fridge,
(23:11):
I found some artichoke carts and a jar of capers,
and in the pantry a container of soft sun dried tomatoes.
I layered them all over the oiled bread, cracked black
pepper on top, and took my plate back to the
(23:32):
sunny spot at the counter. My bread was delicious, and
I proudly enjoyed every bite. As I flipped through more
biscotty recipes, I took the pen from my pocket and
(23:59):
added a note more orange flavor. Maybe add marmalade. My
next plan was for hazel nut and chocolate piscati and
something for spring strawberry and rhubarb. I carried my cup
(24:25):
back to the window where I had stood that morning.
Before flipping the sign, I looked up and down the street.
Saturdays were my favorite sweet dreams.
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