Myra
Tuesday morning felt like a "hangover" in the baking world, and we still had seven days of this pink-and-red hell to go.
The adrenaline of the Segretto delivery had evaporated, leaving behind a bone-deep tired ache and a kitchen that smelled cloyingly of strawberry extract and chocolate ganache. Outside, the rain was turning the Mount Tabor snowbanks into gray slush, but inside, it was a kitschy nightmare.
I stood at the industrial mixer, watching the hook punch into a fresh batch of sugar cookie dough. I looked up at the new wall clock—a heart-shaped, plastic relic with a swinging pendulum that Tony had found in a box at Aunt Dot’s. Against my vocal protests, he’d hammered a nail into the bakery wall and hung it right over the prep station.
"It adds character," he’d argued, dodgi
