The baking bread surrounds me: I can taste it on my tongue, reminding me of my grandmother’s house years ago. I can smell it, too, and for some reason it makes me think of a friend I had in college. We used to talk about bread, and maybe even shared some once. My drink is steaming in the cool bakery. Everyone has their sweaters on, and I pull mine closer. If I weren’t working here, I would spend all day admiring the people, the objects, the food … here mine is now, a scone. The pastry looks as if it were crafted in the Alps, or a small cottage somewhere. Not this little haven in the midst of New York. But, in the meantime, I am grateful to be here and relive the past.