"You know you can't use a mix," he advised as I dumped the contents
of a box into the bowl. "They make everything themselves, their wine,
"Too late, my love. I'll doctor it."
I was making a quick loaf to bring to the grieving neighbors who had just lost
their son to a heart attack.
The loaf was still warm when we rang their door bell. They insisted we sit down and eat. The mother, her eyes puffy, recounted his last party. He was only 39.
"That's my age!" I blurted.
The top of the lemon loaf sank.