Bakery Patrol


We were driving from where we had been to where we were going in New England, driving over and around mountains and through small towns, the small towns that have a mechanic and someone who does roofing and a few houses. People who live there go to the next town for gas and groceries.

We suspected we were coming to that next town based on the font size of the name on the map – I was on bakery patrol. And there it was, on the right, big letters on the side of the building “BAKERY”. There was the Polish Princess Bakery, with 7 empty angled parking places in a row – just big enough for our truck and travel trailer with a space on each end left for other shoppers. It felt like a miracle.

On that day I became the Polish Princess. I had always been the Polish part, at least half of me, and I felt the Princess part was bestowed on me as I walked into the bakery. We decided to follow our routine to buy something to split at the empty table for two by the front window and something to split with our cup of tea after the veil of evening darkness had descended upon our cozy little traveling home.

Our choice to split in the bakery was a chocolate-filled croissant because neither of us can eat chocolate at night. It blocks the easy drift into slumber, even with the chamomile tea antidote. The dark chocolate filling was a perfect mate for the sweet, buttery pastry. We licked our lips, we moaned in joy, and we picked up crumbs with our moistened finger tips.

The real joy came that night when we split the apple-filled pastry. The crust was between a very good pie crust and a filo pastry, oh so flaky and tender and buttery. It was folded over real, not-out-of-a-can, apples that were still a little crunchy and sprinkled with just enough cinnamon and sugar to enhance the flavor of the apples while still allowing the apples to have the leading role. The Polish Princess was sorry she had to share half with her Prince.


The prompt from The Daily Post, flavorful, motivated me to write this post.

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