out with two paper bags that weren’t heavy but held more life than all my stocks of bargain pasta and day-old bread from the past ten years.
At home, I didn’t eat in the kitchen on the worn oilcloth. I went to the dining room, took out a snow-white tablecloth with handmade lace that Quintessa had forbidden me to use (“You’ll stain it, Mama—that’s for continue reading …
