“You’re Just a Baker,” My Sister Screamed—The Next Time They Heard My Name, It Was on a Tokyo Flagship

with disbelief. “You have flour, you have ovens. Just make them.”

“The dough isn’t magic,” I said carefully. “It’s chemistry. Time. If I rush it, it will be terrible, and your ‘old Boston aesthetic’ will feature greasy, underproofed cronuts and a collapsing cake.”

“You’re just being selfish.” Haley’s face contorted, ugliness bleeding through her careful continue reading …