by Lisa Beatman

Set to Rise

Josh the bakerboy tips his popover hat to me, each day I stop by to admire his loaves and long legs, sniffing, only sniffing the flamboyant air. No change jingles in my purse to lead me into indulgences I will late regret.  Like my mother, I adore good bread, and like her, I love it so much I make sure not to keep any around the house. Zaftig hips, y’know. Growing up, we kids were under the impression that all bread was cottony bland, better suited for wadding and throwing than sandwiches. Only the filling counted.

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