For the second consecutive Saturday we have settled into our preferred table for two in the front window of the small bakery in the nearby community. The narrow storefront in the old building just off the square tempts with an array of fresh baked pastries and a variety of prepared toasts served on China plates. It feels like my grandparents’ house without the rules. Young families, with babes in arms, drift in and out, welcomed by the older couples positioned like church greeters near the door. The basket of toys gets passed around from table to table, and around the chairs circling the large farmhouse table anchoring the center of the room.
“Give me one of those cinnamon rolls,” the senior member of the assemblage smiled when his turn came at the counter. “One with lots of icing.” The host surveyed the options in the tray, complied with the order and smiled in return. They had played out this routine before.
Where is Norman Rockwell when you need him? The bakery is a painting begging to be brushed. We sip our coffee out of real cups, read the news, exchange contented smiles with a couple seated nearby, reflect the delight of the kids, and savor the remnant crumbs in front of us. It is an idyllic weekend morning.
Next, of course, is the walking track at the nearby wellness center - in part, to mitigate the calorie intake of the morning. But every step will be worth the exertion, as was every forkful that preceded them.
And we will look forward to next Saturday morning, for the toys passed around, the family smiles, the elderly greetings, the topknotted hostess behind the counter, the extra icing, and the table for two in the window.
And the subsequent miles on the track.
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