The sight of five loaves on the counter had my lips curving. They were like what my mother had used to make. Farmhouse white, she’d called it. Big things like cartoon loaves. All doughy and pillowy, not sweet like the bread here. It was uncanny how I knew what the bread would taste like before I even cut into it, slathered it with butter, and took a bite. The taste of home hit me, and for once, it didn’t turn my stomach.
