She stirs the bucket of clay mix so aggressively that it squelches, and droplets of sticky clay splat onto Winifred’s trousers. “Aiya!” Winifred cries. “Look what you did! These are pure cotton, you know. My daughter-in-law bought them for me from that fancy organic shop down at Union Square. They cost three hundred dollars.” “For those pajama pants? What is this European nonsense?”
