Fine grains of soil and root fiber hung in the air, bits of leaf, petals, pollen, strands of cobweb, a dead fly, all suspended. Slowly drifting. It was the dream or a nightmare a plant might have when the sun went down and predators moved in.
Baking is a science, as rigorous as chemistry or physics. There are rules that must be followed. Too much of one thing and not enough of another can lead to ruin. I find comfort in this. Outside, the world is an unruly place where men prowl with sharpened knives. In baking, there is only order. That’s why Quincy’s Sweets exist
Because here’s the thing about details—they can also be a distraction. Add too many and it obscures the brutal truth about a situation. They become the gaudy necklace that hides the tracheotomy scar. I make no attempts to disguise my scars. I just pretend they don’t exist
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