Hello All,
Hope everyone is surviving the summer... man do I love this weather... well, except for all the flooding... the warm weather and sunshine though... I love it!
I decided to push back this issue a few weeks simply because we had all of those great pieces from the third grade put in and wanted to give them proper viewing time... not that they will be taken down, but they won't be front and center any more...
This issue is filled with some of my favorite writing people... I hope you enjoy it...
And as always... Please send in your submissions... holidaycafe.nicole@gmail.com
thanks
Nicole
Wednesday, July 18, 2018
Distracted
for C.K. Williams
Charles, forgive me for I am distracted and the peculiar wolfish light
of your poems has been refracted by my moony frame of my mind.
My inattention to the minuscule detail daubed into the grain of the page
I'll compare laughably to Hamlet's inability to kill a king,
to the howling winds of Elsinore keep, to the brazen windy farts
of an off-, off-, very off-Broadway audience, say the Bowery, say Fayette County;
the rain pearling at the window and the pliant resigned mews of a white
cat in a denim lap wage a hushed war conscripting my wife's arsenal
of potted plants and the relentless sizzling explosions strafing the skillet
under her expert hand and the lovely red rain of spices that glimmer
down into the wide black eye of the dinner pan; the peppery aroma
redolent of her humid breath and the late summer nights in Baltimore
when the curtains were left lashed and the neighbor across the way
got a good look at our shared red skin; Charles, let's pinkie swear
someday to share a summer solstice, hold it between us like a document,
the terms of my surrender bold as the signature of a founding father,
your words measured as a tailor's tape no longer groping at the smooth
face of my negligence, my dreams no longer of Anna but of the lesser vagaries of art.
Kristofer Collins is the Books Editor for Pittsburgh Magazine and the publisher of Low Ghost Press.
Charles, forgive me for I am distracted and the peculiar wolfish light
of your poems has been refracted by my moony frame of my mind.
My inattention to the minuscule detail daubed into the grain of the page
I'll compare laughably to Hamlet's inability to kill a king,
to the howling winds of Elsinore keep, to the brazen windy farts
of an off-, off-, very off-Broadway audience, say the Bowery, say Fayette County;
the rain pearling at the window and the pliant resigned mews of a white
cat in a denim lap wage a hushed war conscripting my wife's arsenal
of potted plants and the relentless sizzling explosions strafing the skillet
under her expert hand and the lovely red rain of spices that glimmer
down into the wide black eye of the dinner pan; the peppery aroma
redolent of her humid breath and the late summer nights in Baltimore
when the curtains were left lashed and the neighbor across the way
got a good look at our shared red skin; Charles, let's pinkie swear
someday to share a summer solstice, hold it between us like a document,
the terms of my surrender bold as the signature of a founding father,
your words measured as a tailor's tape no longer groping at the smooth
face of my negligence, my dreams no longer of Anna but of the lesser vagaries of art.
Kristofer Collins is the Books Editor for Pittsburgh Magazine and the publisher of Low Ghost Press.
The Rumproller
There is a great banging coming from inside the brewery,
while out here in the sun my blood knocks at the blue
ceilings of my veins like an irate tenant in the apartment
one floor down unprepared for that first blast of Lee
Morgan's trumpet as The Rumproller kicks off its assault
on the funk-deprived asses of Butler Street. The outdoor
benches are bare of shade and the spring-shocked trees
of Allegheny Cemetery, absent their green regalia
stand there in a stupor. Goddamn, it's really gonna happen!
The winter has donned its shabby hat and shown itself
the door. They arrive like Romero's contribution
to our everlasting pulp canon. The sun and this last day
of March crawling around their faces, ready for renewal,
eager for sex and the gauzy delinquent decisions of warm days
and warmer more spectacular nights. A nod is all we need
to say we survived. The world didn't end, and that was not
guaranteed. Touch my hand, put your hand to my cheek.
I'm so happy to see you again. The sun is shaking its
beautiful fat ass all across the sky. Etiquette demands
we do the same.
Kristofer Collins is the Books Editor for Pittsburgh Magazine and the publisher of Low Ghost Press.
while out here in the sun my blood knocks at the blue
ceilings of my veins like an irate tenant in the apartment
one floor down unprepared for that first blast of Lee
Morgan's trumpet as The Rumproller kicks off its assault
on the funk-deprived asses of Butler Street. The outdoor
benches are bare of shade and the spring-shocked trees
of Allegheny Cemetery, absent their green regalia
stand there in a stupor. Goddamn, it's really gonna happen!
The winter has donned its shabby hat and shown itself
the door. They arrive like Romero's contribution
to our everlasting pulp canon. The sun and this last day
of March crawling around their faces, ready for renewal,
eager for sex and the gauzy delinquent decisions of warm days
and warmer more spectacular nights. A nod is all we need
to say we survived. The world didn't end, and that was not
guaranteed. Touch my hand, put your hand to my cheek.
I'm so happy to see you again. The sun is shaking its
beautiful fat ass all across the sky. Etiquette demands
we do the same.
Kristofer Collins is the Books Editor for Pittsburgh Magazine and the publisher of Low Ghost Press.
Grandmothers
(from Costa Rica)
I slump in the lookout, resting swollen feet
on a rattan seat. Baggies of ice are sweating
over my vanished ankles. The humidity
of hours at a pasteboard desk, or hereditary
tremors of my ever-enlarging heart?
Is it because I am thinking about grandmothers,
their habits and leftovers? Metaphorical stockings
rolled below my knees, agéd heels of memory propped
on a pouffe printed with gold cedars of Lebanon,
or a footstool draped with delicate Italian lace.
As my friend Jo Ann, a grandmother, slid into coma
at the flower mountain hospital—Montefiore—
she roared in her final sleep. Browned spotted arms
stretched tight, skin of an antique drum. But her feet,
uncovered—so fragile, arched like a martyred saint.
Angele Ellis’s latest book is Under the Kaufmann’s Clock (Six Gallery Press), a hybrid prose and poetry valentine to her adopted city, with photos by Rebecca Clever. She also is author of Spared (A Main Street Rag Editors’ Choice Chapbook), and Arab on Radar (Six Gallery), whose poems won her a fellowship from the PA Council on the Arts.
I slump in the lookout, resting swollen feet
on a rattan seat. Baggies of ice are sweating
over my vanished ankles. The humidity
of hours at a pasteboard desk, or hereditary
tremors of my ever-enlarging heart?
Is it because I am thinking about grandmothers,
their habits and leftovers? Metaphorical stockings
rolled below my knees, agéd heels of memory propped
on a pouffe printed with gold cedars of Lebanon,
or a footstool draped with delicate Italian lace.
As my friend Jo Ann, a grandmother, slid into coma
at the flower mountain hospital—Montefiore—
she roared in her final sleep. Browned spotted arms
stretched tight, skin of an antique drum. But her feet,
uncovered—so fragile, arched like a martyred saint.
Angele Ellis’s latest book is Under the Kaufmann’s Clock (Six Gallery Press), a hybrid prose and poetry valentine to her adopted city, with photos by Rebecca Clever. She also is author of Spared (A Main Street Rag Editors’ Choice Chapbook), and Arab on Radar (Six Gallery), whose poems won her a fellowship from the PA Council on the Arts.
Reflections on a Vase
After Rilke’s “Archaic Torso of Apollo”
Museum sculptures glow like lamps at dusk.
My guttering spark
departs this world’s archaic brilliance.
I am that cheap amphora
turned by machine to gore its sides.
A clichéd female curve
below a gaping mouth.
What florists dust on whatnot shelves
for wan refrigerated buds
and spores of baby’s breath.
My vessel carries brittle stalks
in its restricted borders,
brown spires like frozen seaweed
without the ocean’s thunder,
the burnt sienna of November.
Deader than dead,
one branch points inward
its accusing finger. Dickens’ third ghost
seeing my future: a deserted grave.
Here, there is nothing that sees me.
You must change your life—but how?
Angele Ellis’s latest book is Under the Kaufmann’s Clock (Six Gallery Press), a hybrid prose and poetry valentine to her adopted city, with photos by Rebecca Clever. She also is author of Spared (A Main Street Rag Editors’ Choice Chapbook), and Arab on Radar (Six Gallery), whose poems won her a fellowship from the PA Council on the Arts.
Museum sculptures glow like lamps at dusk.
My guttering spark
departs this world’s archaic brilliance.
I am that cheap amphora
turned by machine to gore its sides.
A clichéd female curve
below a gaping mouth.
What florists dust on whatnot shelves
for wan refrigerated buds
and spores of baby’s breath.
My vessel carries brittle stalks
in its restricted borders,
brown spires like frozen seaweed
without the ocean’s thunder,
the burnt sienna of November.
Deader than dead,
one branch points inward
its accusing finger. Dickens’ third ghost
seeing my future: a deserted grave.
Here, there is nothing that sees me.
You must change your life—but how?
Angele Ellis’s latest book is Under the Kaufmann’s Clock (Six Gallery Press), a hybrid prose and poetry valentine to her adopted city, with photos by Rebecca Clever. She also is author of Spared (A Main Street Rag Editors’ Choice Chapbook), and Arab on Radar (Six Gallery), whose poems won her a fellowship from the PA Council on the Arts.
Celebrating Life
Since 2003, the month of June has, for me, been a reminder of my grandparents’ deaths. Every year, I find myself marking the anniversary of their departures from this world and thinking about how their passing has impacted my life. My Pap passed away a week after I graduated high school and his death marked the beginning of a difficult transition into adulthood. My grandmother followed twelve years and two days later, making me realize that I no longer had a single grandparent living, and that I had taken their presence for granted. To this day, I still feel their absence every time I drive by their old house, eat traditional Slovak food, or hear Unchained Melody on the radio.
And while June has been emotionally significant for me in a negative sense, I'm only recently realizing that it doesn’t have to be. Because June was significant for my grandparents for other reasons – reasons that I’ve always known but for some reason have been overlooking for more than a decade.
June was also a month for celebrating life -- they were both born in June and got married in June. It was a month for family, for fun, and for love, celebrating three important events often at once as they were in such close succession – June 7th, June 15th, and June 16th marked Gram’s birthday, Pap’s birthday, and their anniversary.
So instead of thinking about the pain and the difficult changes their deaths brought to my family and my life, I want to try to focus on celebrating their legacy. Both of my grandparents were children of Czech immigrants. They grew up with little to no luxuries, living in small homes and sharing and ethnic food with over a dozen brothers and sisters between the two of them. They met when they were thirteen and fourteen, married in the early fifties, and raised five children in a house full of love and Czech phrases and curse words that are still muttered by surviving generations.
Some of the best memories from my childhood and teen years were listening to them tell stories about growing up in the aftermath of the Great Depression, exploring the then-open fields of West Mifflin where Gypsies roamed in the summer, and finding buried treasure in what is now Kennywood’s parking lot. I loved hearing them talk about their immigrant parents, mimicking the Slovakian accents with fondness. My grandma often told funny stories that came along with raising five children, and my pap had plenty to share when it came to him working in the steel mills that put Pittsburgh on the map.
I remember spending countless nights sleeping over in their big, old house, watching Gram make homemade nut rolls, pierogis, and chicken noodle soup, and watching Pap tend his giant garden and fiddle with the antiques he collected and occupied most of the basement and attic.
I remember the warm, bright days that were unmistakably June - a month for celebrating Father’s Day, attending graduation parties, and going to Kennywood picnics. The amusement park always held a special place in my pap’s heart, as he and Gram spent many nights dancing under the old band shell and squishing together in old-fashioned photo booths for black and white pictures.
June was a month of sitting at picnic tables, eating barbecue and cake, splashing in Gram and Pap’s Koi pond, getting dirty playing in their yard, climbing trees and swinging on the swing set. It was a month for celebration, full of love, and full of life.
So as June circles by on the calendar again this year, I’ll try not to cry over their absence, but smile and laugh as I celebrate their beautiful lives.
And while June has been emotionally significant for me in a negative sense, I'm only recently realizing that it doesn’t have to be. Because June was significant for my grandparents for other reasons – reasons that I’ve always known but for some reason have been overlooking for more than a decade.
June was also a month for celebrating life -- they were both born in June and got married in June. It was a month for family, for fun, and for love, celebrating three important events often at once as they were in such close succession – June 7th, June 15th, and June 16th marked Gram’s birthday, Pap’s birthday, and their anniversary.
So instead of thinking about the pain and the difficult changes their deaths brought to my family and my life, I want to try to focus on celebrating their legacy. Both of my grandparents were children of Czech immigrants. They grew up with little to no luxuries, living in small homes and sharing and ethnic food with over a dozen brothers and sisters between the two of them. They met when they were thirteen and fourteen, married in the early fifties, and raised five children in a house full of love and Czech phrases and curse words that are still muttered by surviving generations.
Some of the best memories from my childhood and teen years were listening to them tell stories about growing up in the aftermath of the Great Depression, exploring the then-open fields of West Mifflin where Gypsies roamed in the summer, and finding buried treasure in what is now Kennywood’s parking lot. I loved hearing them talk about their immigrant parents, mimicking the Slovakian accents with fondness. My grandma often told funny stories that came along with raising five children, and my pap had plenty to share when it came to him working in the steel mills that put Pittsburgh on the map.
I remember spending countless nights sleeping over in their big, old house, watching Gram make homemade nut rolls, pierogis, and chicken noodle soup, and watching Pap tend his giant garden and fiddle with the antiques he collected and occupied most of the basement and attic.
I remember the warm, bright days that were unmistakably June - a month for celebrating Father’s Day, attending graduation parties, and going to Kennywood picnics. The amusement park always held a special place in my pap’s heart, as he and Gram spent many nights dancing under the old band shell and squishing together in old-fashioned photo booths for black and white pictures.
June was a month of sitting at picnic tables, eating barbecue and cake, splashing in Gram and Pap’s Koi pond, getting dirty playing in their yard, climbing trees and swinging on the swing set. It was a month for celebration, full of love, and full of life.
So as June circles by on the calendar again this year, I’ll try not to cry over their absence, but smile and laugh as I celebrate their beautiful lives.
Stacy is a 2003 graduate of West Mifflin Area High School and has completed two courses with The Institute of Children’s Literature. She writes novels for teenagers and adults, both of which can be found on Amazon. Stacy lives in Munhall with her husband and fur kid, and besides writing, enjoys reading, Penguins hockey, and traveling.
Musings for Moms: Summer 2018
Here we are readers, almost two-thirds of summer break is over... and I have to say, I am a bit saddened by it. Mostly because I am not ready to let go of summer yet. I am not ready to pack lunches, help with homework (common core math - you know where you can go!) or wear sweaters and winter coats yet. I am a lover of the hot weather and sunshine, not the bitter cold and gloomy overcast sky.I get it though, it's tough to keep the kids entertained for three months during the summer. This summer both of my boys were signed up for a day camp. It's a few hours a day for five weeks. There are field trips, get to play sports, run around the playground and crafts. And when it is ridiculously hot outside, they turn the sprinklers on for the kids.
The boys and I have been venturing out this summer, now that they are getting older and napping is no longer a thing (well, mostly) it is getting a little easier to go places... Well, mostly... not going to lie, if they aren't excited about doing something - all hell breaks loose, but if they are, then a good time is had by all.
We all liked it and I was able to tell the boys various things on our journey like, at one time I used to work here or your dad worked here, this is where I work now and oh this is where dad and I got married. We also learned some interesting facts like there are FOUR rivers in Pittsburgh - not three! Yep, you read that right...
We have gone to the movies a few times this summer already. Most recently we have seen The Incredibles movie. We gorged on popcorn (one small loaded with butter for the older boy (just like his dad), one large without butter for me and my mini) and icees. Is it just me or does everyone else think the prices at the concession stand are ridiculous?! I mean our snacks were more than the three movie tickets!
We reclined back (yes, our movie theater has leather recliner seats... it is amazing!) and watched the movie which picks up right where the first one left off 14 years ago. That's all I will say about that, because I don't want to ruin it for anyone who might not have seen it yet.The most recent thing we did was go to the Carnegie Science Center to see The Art of the Brick by
Nathan Sawaya ... The exhibit is very awesome - and if you get a chance to check it out before it is gone, you most certainly should. I cannot even begin to fathom how many legos were used for the entire exhibit nor can I imagine how much super glue was used ...
We also got to see the Vintage Grand Prix races, which are always fun. The boys will be going back to the science center for a camp field trip and to the movies as well. As for us, I want to get a trip in to Kennywood and our family vacation then it will be all about Kindergarten orientation and back to school ... But we are making memories that hopefully will last their lifetimes... and that is what is important.
Submerging, a review by Rachael Bindas
Submerging, a small literary magazine based in Patterson, NY, intricately weaves short stories, poetry, and photography together into one seamless publication. The nostalgic black-and-white photographs perfectly complement the writing, enhanced by publication’s glossy cardstock.The Summer 2018 issue is titled, “Where are we in the story.” The issue focuses on characters and speakers at various stages of their lives, and the personal introspection that comes with each stage of life. In “Jobs and Teeth” by Jude Vachon, the narrator reflects on how jobs can spoil like bad teeth: “Sometimes they have to come out, they’re rotten.” The reader gains the sense that the narrator teeters on the edge of a precipice, craving a dramatic change but not quite fulfilling that desire.
Threaded together by feelings of loneliness, the stories and poems are intermixed, rather than being separated by genre. The result is an experience of harmonious, uninterrupted reading and appreciation. Each story and poem shares in a collective sense of uncertainty. You know where your characters are in their individual stories, but you do not necessarily know where their stories may lead.
Rachael Bindas is a freelance writer and editor from Pittsburgh, PA. She focuses mainly on fiction, but still harbors a deep love for poetry. Her work has been featured in Moledro Magazine, Aeons, The Curious Element Magazine, and The Holiday Cafe.
Lucy's Italian Bakery
Lucy’s Italian Bakery is a quaint little bakery with giant store front windows. There are shelves, in the windows, filled with delicious traditional Italian pastries. There are rows of Panettone wrapped in cellophane with giant red bows tied around each one. Sfogliatella that looks so flakey and delicious. They are delicately placed on white rectangular platters. The Bombolone are stacked mile high on a cake platter with a light dusting of powder sugar. Custard oozing down the sides of a few of these fluffy doughnuts.
The bakery storefront always creates pedestrian traffic on Hazelwood Avenue to come to a standstill. Everyone stops to look at the beautiful dessert displays. People start to drool if they look at the delicious desserts to long. The sweet aromas coming from the bakery can be smelled for miles.
Lucy, the owner of the bakery, is practically a town celebrity. She is a big boned Italian woman with thick black hair that she always wears in a victory roll. People describe her as classy and conservative but, don’t try to cross her because that would be a battle you would never win. There is the legendary story of Giuseppe Russo, the neighborhood boy who tried to rob the bakery at gun point. He failed miserably. Lucy had a rolling pin near the register and wacked him so hard over the head he saw stars. Giuseppe tried to get away, but he was so disoriented the cops were able to catch him on Gladstone Street which is a few blocks from the bakery. Lucy gladly pressed charges.
Lucy even banned the Ricci family from her bakery because they said her “pizzelles are too crispy.” Lucy started waving her hands and screaming “how are they to crispy? The pizzelles aren’t even burnt! Get out of here and don’t come back.” Within 24 hours she posted a picture of the Ricci family on the front door and wrote banned in big bold black letters.
This bakery is her life. She had lost her husband Norman during WWII. Norman was a tall lanky kind of man and everyone can remember him for his whimsical sense of humor. Norman was a Military Police Officer. He was guarding his post one night and the Germans ambushed his post. Norman was shot several times. Amazingly enough he did not die because of the gunshot wounds he died due to a bad infection. The doctors did what they could for him, but it was not enough. Lucy was devastated when she got the news, but she refused to sit around and mope. Six months after Norman’s death she opened Lucy’s bakery.
Lucy is very close with her family. When she told her family, she wanted to open an Italian bakery her father was too drunk to care, which was typical. He just mumbled something and continued to drink his wine. Her mother gives her a big hug and said in broken English, “I support you.” Nickolas and Joseph, her older protective brothers, volunteered to help to do most of the leg work. Such as finding the location, help make the renovations, and making sure no one tried to scam her. Just being typical protective older brothers.
Jenny, her younger sister, was hit by a trolley car a few years earlier and lost part of her hearing. She thought Lucy said she wanted to open a French Creperie. Jenny jumped up in such excitement and said “Lu, I love crepes! How can I help?” Lucy looked at Jenny like she had ten heads and said in an irritated tone “what’s a matter with you? I said Italian Bakery not a French Creperie!” Everyone busts out laughing.
On December 14, 1942, Lucy’s Bakery had its grand opening just in time for the Christmas rush. Jenny does a great job handling the customers at the counter, despite her not being to fully hear the customers. Items are flying off the shelves. Lucy frantically tries to keep everything stocked. The cannoli sold out within the first hour of the store opening. No one was surprised that the cannoli’s sold out so quickly. Lucy used the recipe her great grandmother has passed down to the family for generations. The customers and passer-bys were raving how great everything tasted, looked, and smelled. The line was out the door and around the block. Lucy had hoped her bakery would be successful, after that first day, it looked as if her dreams would come true.
Jenny and Lucy were preparing to close the shop for the day. Joe came busting thru the doors carrying a giant jug of red wine. He said “let’s celebrate!” Lucy and Jenny locked the doors, kicked their shoes off, and started to drink right out of the jug. They looked exhausted, but not regretting their decision of starting this business and looking forward to the future success of the bakery.
Every Sunday the bakery was closed. Lucy attended mass with her family at St. Stephens Catholic Church. She always donated pastries to Father Falcone and the nuns. They were always grateful for the donation. After mass she would head back to Mama’s house for a Sunday spaghetti feast.
The bakery storefront always creates pedestrian traffic on Hazelwood Avenue to come to a standstill. Everyone stops to look at the beautiful dessert displays. People start to drool if they look at the delicious desserts to long. The sweet aromas coming from the bakery can be smelled for miles.
Lucy, the owner of the bakery, is practically a town celebrity. She is a big boned Italian woman with thick black hair that she always wears in a victory roll. People describe her as classy and conservative but, don’t try to cross her because that would be a battle you would never win. There is the legendary story of Giuseppe Russo, the neighborhood boy who tried to rob the bakery at gun point. He failed miserably. Lucy had a rolling pin near the register and wacked him so hard over the head he saw stars. Giuseppe tried to get away, but he was so disoriented the cops were able to catch him on Gladstone Street which is a few blocks from the bakery. Lucy gladly pressed charges.
Lucy even banned the Ricci family from her bakery because they said her “pizzelles are too crispy.” Lucy started waving her hands and screaming “how are they to crispy? The pizzelles aren’t even burnt! Get out of here and don’t come back.” Within 24 hours she posted a picture of the Ricci family on the front door and wrote banned in big bold black letters.
This bakery is her life. She had lost her husband Norman during WWII. Norman was a tall lanky kind of man and everyone can remember him for his whimsical sense of humor. Norman was a Military Police Officer. He was guarding his post one night and the Germans ambushed his post. Norman was shot several times. Amazingly enough he did not die because of the gunshot wounds he died due to a bad infection. The doctors did what they could for him, but it was not enough. Lucy was devastated when she got the news, but she refused to sit around and mope. Six months after Norman’s death she opened Lucy’s bakery.
Lucy is very close with her family. When she told her family, she wanted to open an Italian bakery her father was too drunk to care, which was typical. He just mumbled something and continued to drink his wine. Her mother gives her a big hug and said in broken English, “I support you.” Nickolas and Joseph, her older protective brothers, volunteered to help to do most of the leg work. Such as finding the location, help make the renovations, and making sure no one tried to scam her. Just being typical protective older brothers.
Jenny, her younger sister, was hit by a trolley car a few years earlier and lost part of her hearing. She thought Lucy said she wanted to open a French Creperie. Jenny jumped up in such excitement and said “Lu, I love crepes! How can I help?” Lucy looked at Jenny like she had ten heads and said in an irritated tone “what’s a matter with you? I said Italian Bakery not a French Creperie!” Everyone busts out laughing.
On December 14, 1942, Lucy’s Bakery had its grand opening just in time for the Christmas rush. Jenny does a great job handling the customers at the counter, despite her not being to fully hear the customers. Items are flying off the shelves. Lucy frantically tries to keep everything stocked. The cannoli sold out within the first hour of the store opening. No one was surprised that the cannoli’s sold out so quickly. Lucy used the recipe her great grandmother has passed down to the family for generations. The customers and passer-bys were raving how great everything tasted, looked, and smelled. The line was out the door and around the block. Lucy had hoped her bakery would be successful, after that first day, it looked as if her dreams would come true.
Jenny and Lucy were preparing to close the shop for the day. Joe came busting thru the doors carrying a giant jug of red wine. He said “let’s celebrate!” Lucy and Jenny locked the doors, kicked their shoes off, and started to drink right out of the jug. They looked exhausted, but not regretting their decision of starting this business and looking forward to the future success of the bakery.
Every Sunday the bakery was closed. Lucy attended mass with her family at St. Stephens Catholic Church. She always donated pastries to Father Falcone and the nuns. They were always grateful for the donation. After mass she would head back to Mama’s house for a Sunday spaghetti feast.
Natalie is the author of The Many Colors of Natalie, a book of poetry. She holds an associates degree in Specialized Technology Le Cornon Bleu Pastry Arts and in her spare time is an artist and percussionist.
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