The Baker's Daughter

Alors, où aller quand votre maison ne constituait plus un abri - quand le monde n'avait plus aucun sens ? A quel moment prendre la décision de partir ou de rester ?

Being a Nazi is a political position, not an ethnicity. I am not a Nazi because I am German.

Brötchen There’s nothing more German than this recipe. A staple for all true Schmidt bakers. These are best hot out of the oven with butter or cherry jam. That’s the way Mom did it. Here, I’ll give you Oma’s cherry jam recipe too. 2½ to 3 cups all-purpose flour 1 packet active dry yeast (rapid) 1 teaspoon sugar 1 cup warm water 1 tablespoon oil 1 teaspoon salt 1 egg white Put 2½ cups flour into a large bowl and make a well in the middle. Pour yeast, sugar, and two tablespoons of warm water (the water comes from the 1 cup) into the well. Mix yeast, sugar, and water in the well, but don’t mix in the flour yet. Cover the bowl with a cloth and set it in a warm place for 15 minutes until it proofs. Add the rest of the water and oil, and beat in the salt and flour good. Turn out the dough on a floured wooden board, and knead. Add the remaining ½ cup flour as needed to make it smooth. Put dough in a greased bowl, cover, and let it rise until it doubles in size. About an hour in that same warm spot. Punch down, then split it into 12 pieces. Shape into rolls and place 3 inches apart on a greased and floured baking tray. Cover and let rise one more time until they double again. Cut a cross on top of each. Beat egg white and 1 teaspoon water with a fork until frothy and brush the rolls. (Oh, I forgot—should have preheated the oven to 450°F already.) Then you bake for 15 to 20 minutes until the tops are golden.

By the time she lay down, the darkness was a friend not a foe.

Elsie caught herself staring at it with a kind of craving that transcended hunger. She knew every cherry dimple, every beautiful chocolate curl. For her, the cake was a reminder of all that had been and a pledge of all that she’d have again.

Elsie posed with trays of Christmas stollen, nut bars, and lebkuchen hearts. “During times of war, Christmas may mean fewer gifts under the tree but more gifts from the heart.” That was her all-star quote. Reba had pushed hard to get it. Reba

I guess when you're happy where you are, the grass don't seem so green on the other side of the fence. Maybe it never was.

It isn’t like I’m a stranger. It’s a new hat on an old head.

I understand, honey.” Jane took a seat at the café table and set her lavender cleaner on the ground. “This is a border town, for sure, a transient, crossover place, but some never get to crossing. Stuck in between where they were and where they were headed. And after a few years go by, nobody can recall their original destination anyhow. So here they stay.” “That’s quotable.” Reba tapped her pen. “But you’ve lived here awhile, correct?” “All my life. Born at Beaumont Hospital on Fort Bliss.

I've never been fooled by the romantic, grand gestures. Love is all about the little things, the everyday considerations, kindnesses, and pardons.

I’ve never been fooled by the romantic, grand gestures. Love is all about the little things, the everyday considerations, kindnesses, and pardons.” Reba

Kings of a bakery? The very suggestion was laughable. How easy it was to assume that elsewhere was infinitely better than where you stood. Sometimes at night, she dreamed of the TEXAS, U.S.A. magazine advertisement, envisioning a land with row upon row of fat loaves laden with jeweled fruits; bread cubes sodden with thick lamb stew; sugar-dusted sweet breads, ginger-spiced cookies, and fat wedges of chocolate cake soaked in Kirschwasser. She’d awake with cold drool down her chin. Regardless of the family’s lack of resources, one of Papa’s famous Black Forest cakes had miraculously prevailed. Dressed in a layer of bittersweet chocolate shavings

Love is all about the little things, the everyday considerations, kindnesses, and pardons.

Now that’s love.”Jane laughed. “Man’s all aflutter trying to help his missus pull off a nice party for their kid.” She scribbled the name on a sheet of paper. “I’ve never been fooled by the romantic, grand gestures. Love is all about the little things, the everyday considerations, kindnesses, and pardons.” Reba

People often miss things that don't exist--miss things that were but are not anymore.

She felt a budding loneliness, and with it came the familiar emptiness that once threatened to swallow her whole.

Should we bury our memory barbs to keep them from piercing budding hearts? No doubt they will encounter their own tragedies in due time. Or should we warn our children that the world is harsh and men can be wicked?

So where are you headed if you’re already home?” Jane smiled. “Just ’cause you’re born in a place don’t make it home.

That’s the cruddy view from the Pacific coast this week. How’s the world facing the Atlantic? Miss you. Love,

The marks on our lives are like music notes on the page--they sing a song.

The past is a black, heavy thing. It will quietly smother our spirits if we let it. You must make peace with it and move forward.

The sadness had returned stronger than ever that night, gnawing on her insides. The hungry wolf, her daddy had called it. In bleary binges, he’d described it to her and Deedee when they were girls: how it crept after him in the daylight shadows and shredded his nights to jagged fragments.

Thomasplitzchen Buns Mom always said these could make your enemies your friends or your friends your enemies. I put on five pounds every St. Thomas Day because of them, so I’d say they’re my friendly enemies. Too good to eat just one. 2 cups all-purpose flour ½ teaspoon salt ½ cup butter ½ cup sugar or brown sugar 2 teaspoons baking powder ½ cup milk Filling 3 teaspoons melted butter 1 cup currants, raisins, cranberries, or whatever small, dried fruit you have on hand ¼ cup sugar Icing 3 tablespoons melted butter Few drops vanilla extract 2 cups powdered sugar Mix up all the ingredients for the buns. Get a rolling pin and press out the dough to one-eighth-inch thick on a floured board. Mix together the filling: butter, dried fruit, and sugar. Spread it on the dough. Roll it up like a fat sausage, and make one-inch slices. Put them pinwheel side up on a greased cookie sheet and bake off in a pre-heated 350°F oven until barely suntanned on top. For me, that’s about 12 minutes on a hot day and 15 on a cold one. To make the icing, mix together butter, vanilla extract, and powdered sugar. When the buns are out of the oven, give them a good sugar smothering and let cool.

Tutti noi raccontiamo bugie su noi stessi, sul nostro passato e sul nostro presente. Alcune ci paiono trascurabili, prive di importanza; altre ci sembrano colossali, incriminanti. Ma in realtà sono la stessa cosa. Solo Dio conosce tutta la nostra storia, così da poterci giudicare.

We all tell little lies about ourselves, Our past, our presents. We think some of them are minuscule, unimportant, And others, large and incriminating. But they are the same. Only God Has enough of the story to judge our souls.

We all tell little lies about ourselves, our pasts, our presents. We think some of them are miniscule, unimportant and others large and incriminating. But they are the same. Only God has enough of the story to judge our souls.

Whether we’re standing on the shores of the Pacific or the Atlantic, the water is the same. Love