It's run by little old ladies with hairnets. They have great bread and their birthday cakes are a tradition for our family. But don't assume they understand English. Twice now, I've tried to ask for "NO red writing on the birthday cake" only to have them emerge from the back holding it proudly displaying "Bon Fete!" in bright red gel.
Kiki made the soup tonight. The little old hairnet ladies made the bread. Here is a sample of our dinner conversation:
"Mom, can you make ratatouille? In the morning?-- Sawyer, you won't even like it, it's squash and sausage and stuff like that!-- Yes I will Kiki!-- Sam thought Stromboli meant tsunami.-- Which Sam? The one that moved to George Washington?-- Mom, if I eat all my soup can I have one of those things?--Thanks for the nice dinner Kiki--I like all the nice Daisy fiber in it--DAD!"
Sawyer using the universal whining face: I'm thirsty, where's my bread, where's my bread, where's my bread?"
You'd think he'd never heard the answer: "Whiney boys don't get anything. Try again."
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