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The Bakehouse Texas: How I Ended Up With a Bakery in My Backyard
When I was a kid, I loved to play house, though I was never especially interested in the husband-and-child portion of the game. Funny now, considering I have both and am pleased as punch with the arrangement.
What I wanted was the house.
I wanted a room that belonged to me. I wanted to move the furniture around, decide what pretend cakes we were serving, and choose who was invited.
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“You’re with a girl. She’s brown-haired and side-swept. I imagine that she’s the kind of girl who can easily shop for jean shorts, and speaks kindly more often than not. She seems like the kind of girl who hates New York City because it wreaks havoc on her shoes (really she just thinks it’s a big and scary place), but once had the time of her life in Spain on a backpacking trip when she was 23. Her gaze is focused on the embracing couple as near strangers capable of judgement. She stands bolted next to you like you’re her anchor in the social storm.
You two seem finely matched… but what do I know? (Nothing at all.)
I accidentally saw a picture of you and it reminded me that I was dating a man rightfully shaking his fist at God, while trying to hold my hand with the other. I was reminded of how fiercely we tried to hold our relationship together, and how devastated and relieved we were in its destruction. There’s water under that bridge.
I accidentally saw a picture of you. No big deal. I wrote about it.”
―
You two seem finely matched… but what do I know? (Nothing at all.)
I accidentally saw a picture of you and it reminded me that I was dating a man rightfully shaking his fist at God, while trying to hold my hand with the other. I was reminded of how fiercely we tried to hold our relationship together, and how devastated and relieved we were in its destruction. There’s water under that bridge.
I accidentally saw a picture of you. No big deal. I wrote about it.”
―
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