Archive | February, 2014

A Hudson County Embroidery Shop Started My Dad’s Career

26 Feb

Embroidery. That is the first word that comes to mind when I think of my Dad. The second is textiles.  These words define his profession.  Yes, he loved my Mom, my siblings and I. But it was the embroidery and textile industry where he spent most of his time.  My Dad’s life followed the course of the American textile industry.

When I was young, my Dad and a friend, Marty T., owned an embroidery shop in New Jersey on the corner of 60th Street and Bergen Boulevard in Hudson County.  At that time Union City was called the Embroidery Capital of the World, and North Bergen had many shops as well.

I remember going to visit him at work on rare occasions. First you entered a front room that showed samples of the work they had finished.  My Dad and his partner did lots of patches for the Army and Navy, as well as fabric.  I still have some curtains I made from fabric made in my Dad’s shop.  Even though it is more than 50 years old, it is in great shape.


Valance made from embroidered fabric from my Dad’s shop.

Behind the showroom was a large room with the big embroidery machines.  We knew not to ever touch them.  The rule was to walk down the middle aisle…turn right and go into the office.

But one time, the machines were down and being cleaned. So my Dad took me around and explained how they worked. How the cards told the machines where to stitch on the fabric.  I was intrigued.  Later I learned that these cards used on the jacquard embroidery machines helped in the development of computers!

When I was about 8, the business had a crisis.   Marty and Dad and taken in a third partner. This guy was a crook, a ‘goniff. ‘ He embezzled money from the firm and disappeared.  He did not pay any of the company’s bills. It was awful for my family.  Dad held three jobs through the help of friends and family.  We never saw him.  He borrowed money from family members to pay off the debts, and later spent many years paying back these loans. It was a tremendous burden that, although it scarred my Dad, it did not stop him.  He was persistent.

Finally he once again got a job in the textile embroidery business with a company called Hanna.   Mario, who owned Hanna, was both a mentor and supporter of my Dad. Dad started in production and moved to sales with Mario’s support.  Now Dad was now traveling around the country selling embroidery, checking the manufacturing and dealing with clients.

Although he learned to love sales, at first he was scared. He often told us how he walked around the block three times before he entered his first sales appointment.

At the time New Jersey and New York City were the hub of the textile industry of America.  North Carolina and Rhode Island had many textile mills. And Dad traveled to these states often.  However, over time the American textile industry declined as more and more fabric was imported from over seas.

Dad did not stay with Mario, he moved on to a company in New York City.  Arnie, the owner, became Dad’s new mentor and supporter. Eventually my Dad became manager of one of this company’s divisions.  He eventually bought this part of the company, started his own company and expanded it.  His niche was swimsuits and lingerie fabric.  He traveled not only in the US but also to Europe, primarily Italy. He had many friends in the textile industry.  I loved the summer I worked for him in Manhattan.  The many people I met did not forget me either.  When I got married, three different designers sent me peignoir sets for my honeymoon.

Many years later I went to Italy.  My Dad said, “Go to Como. It is the most beautiful city.  And it is where the silk industry of Italy started.”  In fact, Como was known as the City of Silk.

Book  from the Silk Museum in Como.

Book from the Silk Museum in Como.

So I went to Como.  Our tour guide had studies textiles at the university in Como. He took us to the Educational Silk Museum.  Even though he did not speak English and I do not speak Italian, we understood each other. Why? Because the machines were so like the machines in my dad’s embroidery shop from so long ago. I knew all about jacquard pints and how the cards told the machines where to stitch.  I recognized many of the pieces of equipment.  My husband just stood to the side as we analyzed everything.  I bought books about the textile/silk museum for both my Dad and for me.

My Dad spent his entire adult life in the American textile industry.  But even before he served in Korea for the US Army, he had one other experience in the ‘textile’ business.  When he was a teenage, Dad had the opportunity to work in a textile warehouse one summer. One of his best buddy’s father owned the company.  Every day they went to work in a giant empty warehouse where the two of them played catch.  But every once in a while a large shipment would come in. They would stencil all the boxes with words saying that there was textile machinery inside.

Years later, Dad was reading a book and started to laugh.  The book told about the smuggling of weapons to Israel before the 1948 war…the warehouse my Dad worked in that summer was one of those known to have shipped arms to Israel.

The American textile industry not only gave my Dad and my family a great life, it also provided my Dad with one of his favorite personal stories.


(Thanks to my brother for remembering with me.)

Always Missing My New Jersey Diners

20 Feb

There are some things about New Jersey that I miss more than others.  At the top of the list is the wonderful New Jersey diner.  There is nothing in the world like eating at a diner.

Okay, perhaps the food is not the best…but there is a lot of it.

Perhaps the décor is a little outdated….but it is fun!

The wait staff might sometimes be a little gruff, but they can help you decide on the best meal ever.

There is nothing like a New Jersey diner.

Typically owned by a Greek family, a diner’s menu usually consists of both American and Greek food.  Of course you can order matzah ball soup and deli sandwiches as well.  Breakfast, lunch and dinner can be ordered at any time of the day. And on Friday, they usually have challah.

The best thing about the food in the diner, is that everyone can find something to eat.  Because the menu choices are so vast, no one can complain.  A great value when you take children out to dine.

And diners are family friendly!

There is nothing in the Midwest that can compare.


Mom and Dad at the Diner the summer 2005.

When my parents were living, every time I went to New Jersey, we had our first meal at the River View Diner on River Road in North Bergen.  It was my parent’s favorite.  Tom, the owner, would greet my parents with a big hello.  He was always happy to see my children and me. ( One comment, although named the River View Diner, and located very close to the Hudson Rive, you cannot see the River from the eating area of the diner. )

We would meet my sister and her family there.  In fact, the night before my sister gave birth to her daughter, we ate at the diner. My husband, children and I had flown into NJ for Passover.  For our ‘last’ meal out, we ate at the diner.  My sister was already at least a week past her due date.  It was obvious that she was ready to have the baby.

The next day, my niece was born.  Although I would like to say that diner food helped speed her along to giving birth, I cannot not.  My sister really did not eat much that evening.

Whenever my parents said, “Let’s eat at the Diner,” we knew exactly where they were talking about.  There was no other diner for them. And as they aged, their dining at the diner increased.   In fact, after they both passed away, my siblings and I, along with some of our children, went to the diner to eat.  It seemed right.

When I was in New Jersey to clean out my parents’ apartment, my brother and I again went to the diner on River Road, for the memory of our parents. Tom’s children now run the diner. They have updated the outside and inside décor.   It looks really nice. But the menu is still the same.  Thank goodness.

However, one diner visit was not enough for me.  Since I was staying in Tenafly with my sister, I was able to convince her that eating at the diner in town was important as well.  There are a multitude of good restaurants in Tenafly. But somehow we ate three meals at the diner.

To those who have never seen a diner, the outside is always somewhat the same: a sort of metallic, (usually)  rectangular box with windows.  And the word, Diner, must be included in the title.  Tenafly Diner, River View Diner…. Nothing fancy.  There are lots of booths in a diner, with formica table tops.  The booth seats must be covered in vinyl…red, blue, grey.  The color does not matter that much.  An important element used to be the little jukeboxes at each table.  But in many diners these have been removed.

Desserts were also important when having a diner meal.  Besides filling up on the enormous amounts of food, you have to save room for a pastry or a cookie.   I loved the chocolate chip cookies at my parent’s favorite diner.  I would check out all the cookies they had and pick out the perfect ones. Mom and I loved them.  No one else really did.  We didn’t care.  We always ordered one or two to bring home and then would eat them with our tea each evening.  We shared a cookie each night.

Recently my daughter revealed a secret to me.  She actually did not like eating at the diner. I was shocked.  How could my daughter feel that way?  But I realized she was brought up in Kansas.  There were probably too many choices  on the menu for her.  And what did she know of good diner food?

She did not know what she was saying!  But for me…I will always be missing my New Jersey diners.

Knitting and Crocheting Brings Love and Memories

13 Feb

I am told that what I do is a dying talent.  When I sit in an airplane or in a waiting room, people walk over to me to see what I am doing.  What am I making?  How did I learn to do that?

I am crocheting with thread.  I use a tiny hook, with thin brightly colored yarns.  Sometimes I make up my own designs, sometimes I navigate the instructions in a book or magazine.  My favorite is to make doilies, bookmarks and small table clothes.


I started when I was nine year old.  One summer my Grandma Esther decided it was time I learned to knit and crochet.  It became our summer project.  Whenever I was not running with the ‘pack’ of children,  I was sitting with my Grandma and learning a new skill.

My Grandma was always knitting…when she wasn’t playing canasta.  She made sweaters for all of us.  Afghans were important. She made one for each grandchild and great grandchild, when they arrived.  There was a yarn store in Kauneonga Lake where you could buy yarn in bulk.  I think my Grandma, aunt and mother supported that store.

But teaching me was much, much harder than she imagined, because I was left handed, and my Grandma did everything right handed.   Which is why, in the end, I crochet right handed.

I remember sitting on her lap on a wooden chair under a tree at the bungalow colony in Kauneonga Lake.  We started with large needles and thick yarn.  I first learned to make a scarf and a hat.  Knitting and purling; straight needles for the scarf, then a needle in the round for the hat.  I learned increase and decrease, casting on and casting off.

She taught me by holding her hands over my hands.  And soon the knitting was no problem.  I just sat next to her and knitted while we talked.  If I had a problem like dropping a stitch, she was right there to help me. She showed me how to fix it and to keep on going.  The idea was not for her to fix it for me, but for me to learn how to do it for the next time.

Once I finished the hat and scarf, it was time to learn to crochet.  This was oh so much more difficult.  At least when you knit, you use two needles.  So even though I was not right handed, I could still learn to knit the way she did.

But crocheting was different. Grandma tried.  We spent hours and days as she tried to crochet left handed to teach me the techniques of single, double and triple crochets.  She eventually gave up.

“We are going to try something different,” she said, as she put the crochet hook in my right hand.  It was not a problem.  I think as a left-handed person, you learn early on to do things with your right hand.  I had to cut with scissors with my right hand, I threw a ball with my right hand…we only had left handed gloves, so it made sense that I could crochet with my right hand.

The knowledge of knitting and crocheting that I learned that summer has stayed with me my entire life.

When my children were little, I made lots of sweaters, blankets, scarves and hats.  I made gifts for my friends’ children.   A close friend of mine and I knitted all the time, sharing patterns for sweaters we made for our children.  I enjoyed knitting more than crocheting.  It went quicker.

But when my son was four, I broke my right elbow and wrist.  And all knitting had to stop.  I was in the middle of a sweater when it happened.  I tried to go back to knitting after my arm healed, but I could not hold the weight of the sweater with my arm as I knitted.

I stopped all knitting and crocheting for years.  And I missed it.

Then one day while watching my son in his gymnastic class, I noticed a woman using thread yarn to make a bookmark.   I thought. “I think I could do that. “ It did not look heavy at all.  She was nice enough to share her pattern. I went out and bought a fine needle and some yarn.

Image Crocheting at our home in Kauneonga Lake.

I was addicted!!!  I made hundreds of bookmarks.  I used patterns from books. I made my own designs.  I made about five each day.  I crocheted at music lessons, gymnastics, basketball, bar/bat mitzvah lessons, watching television.  Whenever I had down time, I crocheted.

The bookmarks were everywhere.  My children’s school friends each got some. Relatives got them for every birthday and holiday.  I donated them to the school library. I gave them away.  Finally my daughter said in exasperation,  “MOM, CAN’T YOU CROCHET SOMETHING OTHER THAN BOOKMARKS?”

And I said, “Yes, I think I can.”

I started on doilies.  I have made hundreds of doilies of every color, except white….too boring.  For my son’s bar mitzvah I made 65 thread crocheted ‘doilies’ head coverings  for the married women to wear.  It was a great idea.  The men always get something, why don’t the women?  I was going to make them all green, my son’s favorite color. But my Mom insisted I made some quieter colors.   So I made blue and beige as well.  I still see women in my congregation wearing a head covering from the bar mitzvah.

I give them to people who frame them for their daughter’s room.  I give them to friends.  I give them to strangers.  If I have some in my bag and someone admires one, I will give them the finished ones.  It’s not like I do not have at least 30 at home at any time.

I became obsessed with the yarn.  When my daughter lived at home, I would sneak more yarn into my own home, because she could not understand my need for more.   “MOM, I can’t believe you bought more yarn. You haven’t finished the yarn you have,” she would say.  She wanted to do a yarn intervention.

But these were colors I did not have.  I had to buy them.  I have way more yarn then I have time to finish. And the crochet books! They fill a cabinet.  I admit it.

However, when I crochet, I enjoy the feeling of making something.  I love giving them as gifts. I remember the times with my Grandma knitting or crocheting, I have joy from giving them away.

Image My son wearing a scarf that my daughter knit for him.

So, finally, I taught my daughter to knit scarves and hats.  She made some for her grandparents and brother and friends.  And now she loves yarn as well.

From generation to generation, my daughter learned in Kansas,  because my Grandma taught me in the quiet of the Catskills.  And a tiny bit of me is up in the Catskills, sitting on my Grandma’s lap, learning a new skill, while part of me is enjoying watching my daughter follow in a family tradition.

Shopping at Sylvia’s In Kauneonga Lake

8 Feb

Every summer of my childhood and teen years, I spent some time in the S & G Outlet clothing store; or as my grandmother called it, the schmattah store.

Also known as Sylvia’s, this small store was an important part of Kauneonga Lake life.  Located on the hill just as you enter town and overlooking the lake, Sylvia’s carried a bit of all the types of clothing you might need during the summer and beyond.


The town of Kauneonga Lake, looking up the hill to where Sylvia’s store used to stand.

Because it was the only clothing store in town, it had the undivided attention of all the girls and their moms. Sylvia, the owner, was a short, blonde dynamo of a woman.  She could sell anything.  And she did.

My sister, my mom, my grandmother, and I loved going to Sylvia’s.  We bought our bathing suits there each summer. We got jeans and sweaters, socks and underwear, sneakers and flip-flops, shoes and hats.  Everything you needed to survive the summer, you could get there.  It was the time before the big stores like Target and Walmart.  If you outgrew your clothes during the summer, as my brother often did, it was at Sylvia’s that he could get new jeans.

When my friend, Vicki, and I were 13, we were so excited that we were allowed to walk up to Sylvia’s by ourselves.  We both worked as mother’s helpers.  We would save our pay and then shop.  It was great. We felt in control because we shopped by ourselves.  But looking back, I realized our moms had no worries.  Sylvia did not carry anything we could not wear.  Sylvia kept an eye on us and knew both of our moms. And finally if we found something we could not afford, Sylvia would set it aside till our moms could come up to, perhaps, buy it.

We would often buy some of our back-to-school clothes at the store. One year Vicki and I got matching long, mustard gold sweater vests. We thought they were beautiful.  I remember we called each other to plan to wear them to North Bergen High School on the same day, once we were back in school in New Jersey.

The store itself was small. Just one large room with two lines of tables down the middle piled with clothing. A pathway between the tables allowed you to examine all the clothes. Under the tables were stacks of brown shoeboxes filled with sneakers, shoes, and sandals in children and adult sizes.  Extra merchandise was hidden under the tables as well.  Men and boys clothing did not take up as much room as the girls and women clothing. While along the walls were shelving and hanging items.  If you wanted to try something on, you went into the bathroom, which served as the changing room.

Behind the store was a small apartment where Sylvia lived with her son.  It had a little kitchen.  Sometimes when we went there with my grandmother, we had tea in the kitchen.  If the store was not busy, Sylvia and my grandmother would visit and have tea. We were allowed to go into the store and search, while they chatted.

My sister started working for Sylvia when she was 14. Sylvia always loved her.  She, my sister, had the most extensive vocabulary for a small child.  When she opened her mouth, you never knew how she would express something.  I believe Sylvia enjoyed this about my sister.  In any case, as soon as she was old enough to work in a store, she became Sylvia’s helper.

Once my sister started working there, we had an advantage over everyone else. Since she unpacked the boxes and put out the new merchandise, she knew when the best stuff arrived. When she came home from work, she would let us know what had been delivered.  If she really liked something, she would put it on the side.  I remember a pair of shoes, in particular, that my sister felt we both needed.  For that I had to go up and try them on.

When my sister was 14, I was 18.  My full time summers in the Catskills were coming to an end.  By the time I was 21, I was spending my work weeks in the city, and coming up only for the weekends.  I did much of my shopping at B. Altman’s in NYC, or at Little Marcy’s in West New York.

But I still shopped at Sylvia’s.  There was something special about walking up and down those aisles, checking everything out and finding the perfect treasure.

It was a sad day when Sylvia retired and no longer opened her store on the top of the hill overlooking Kauneonga Lake.

My Jobs Behind a Deli Counter: Daitch Shopwell and Butensky’s

5 Feb

Daitch Shopwell supermarket in Monticello is where I spent my summer vacations once I turned 16.  Of course I was not there all the time, but I did work 20 hours a week in the deli department.  The first summer I was assigned to the cheese section, but in later years,  I worked in the deli as well.

It was not my favorite job, but I did meet people who became close friends.  I learned how to speak to all types of people, from the nice grandmotherly types who came in for simple cheeses. To the smartly dressed summer mothers who wanted a specific Tilsit or blue cheese.

I also learned to deal with difficult people.  From those I worked with to those I had to be polite to because they were customers.  I learned that some people treat workers badly, while others will do their best to help you have a good day, especially if they see someone being mean to you.

There was Richard G. who drove me crazy, but kept me sane when things were going badly.  He had a wicked sense of humor. He also was kind enough to drive me home many times, even though I lived 10 miles in the opposite direction from him.  Rich and I became good friends and even were in touch after we married others.

I can still smell the cheeses.  Some were very pungent, others had a nicer aroma.  I got very good at judging what was a 1/3 pound, a half pound, a ¾ pound and a full pound of any meat or cheese in the counters.  It is a skill.  And to this day I can watch someone at a deli counter and tell how much is going to be on the scale.

The one thing I really hated was being on clean up duty.  The people who close up the deli counter also have to clean up.  All those knives had to be washed; all the counters cleaned off; all the trash thrown out.  Not my favorite thing to do at all. But I did it.  It is another thing I learned while working.  The bad comes with the good.

However, working at Daitch also led to my winter job in North Bergen, NJ.  Our neighbor across the street owned a deli on Bergenline Avenue between 77th and 78th  Streets.  I just had to walk up the hill from Boulevard East and I was there.  Sometimes my Dad would drive me up.

I worked for Kenny and Betty Butensky starting in my senior year of high school. Later,  I used to come home from college one or two weekends each month just to work in the deli.

So many people I knew would come into the store.  Working behind a deli counter is not just providing the customer what he or she wants, it is helping them know what they want.  White fish, sable, lox.  Corned beef, pastrami, tongue, bologna, salami.  Rye bread, challah, rolls.  So many good options!

I was the best at deboning the white fish.  This goes back to my days in the Catskills catching fish at Kauneonga Lake.  I learned very early how to filet a fish. I used those skills at Kenny’s.

I learned so much from the Butensky’s.  I learned how to make a deli tray.  I learned to cut a radish to look like a flower.  I learned to garnish.  I learned how to slice lox.  But since I was left handed that job was taken away from me, as I always messed up the angle for everyone else… Sigh.  Whenever I have a party I think of them as I prepare my food trays.

I made sandwiches, bowls of cole slaw and potato salad. There is lots of work in a deli, especially on the weekend.

I made the best corned beef sandwiches….and I had one for lunch each day I worked.  Kenny would  (‘kibbitz’) joke with my dad that he should pay me in corned beef because I loved it so much. When Dad and Kenny teased me too much, Betty would step in and stop them.

In fact when I got married and moved to Kansas, Kenny would send me a corned beef sandwich packed in dried ice for my parents to bring me.  I can still taste those sandwiches.  We do not have great delis in Kansas.  Whenever I went home, I visited the Butensky deli until it closed.

Kenny had another skill.  He was a cantor with a magnificent voice.  It was Kenny who walked down the aisle first in my wedding chanting the sheva brochot…the seven blessings for a bride and groom.   It was beautiful. I still hear his voice, even though I have been married almost 34 years.


Kenny Butensky is the shorter man standing in front.

Everything you do in life shapes you.  I was shy and quiet.  Working in the deli at both Daitch and Kenny’s taught me to be a ‘shmoozer,’ someone who can talk to anyone.  And I do.

I still see Daitch Shopwell in its prime.  The store was always packed with people.  Now it is an empty lot.  But when I go there, I see a filled parking lot.  So many memories are contained in the shell of the store.

In my mind, I see Kenny and Betty behind the counter.  There were times when it was really busy and we could not chat…just work. But then when things were slower we would chat while we worked.

These were times I can never forget.

Bakery Aromas Bring Back Delicious Memories

1 Feb

There are bakery aromas that help me time travel in my mind.  Until I was 3 ½ years old I lived with my parents and brother in an apartment above my grandparents’ bakery, Amsterdam’s Bakery,  on Palisade Avenue in West New York, New Jersey.  I do not remember much of those days. But I remember the smells.

ImageEven though we moved to North Bergen, my brother and I alternated weekends at my grandparents.  They were wonderful adventures.  My younger sister’s birth was the reason we moved, as well as the reason we were sent off to my grandparents.  It gave my mom a needed break.

Staying with my grandparents was the best.  They lived in the top floor of a three-story building.  The bottom, ground level was the bakery. Above it was two smaller apartments. And the top floor was my grandparent’s home.

I loved going to sleep at night, knowing in the morning I was expected to get up on my own…get dressed and make my way to the bakery, with those glorious aromas.

I loved walking into the store area.  Grandma would be behind the counter.  The moment she saw me, her eyes would light up.  Breakfast would soon be coming.

Between the bakery shop and the store was a narrow room with a small kitchen, bathroom and the candle-ing room for the eggs. (My grandfather had a kosher bakery, so all the eggs had to be checked before use.)  Here I would get my warm breakfast of eggs and toast.    Grandpa would often bake me a little loaf of rye bread.  I loved the crust. I did not like the inside.  I would scoop out the inner part and give it to grandma, then eat all the crust with butter. YUM

When done, I would enter the bakery!  Grandpa and Uncle Leo would be busy.  But never too busy to forget to give me my dough, raisins and some chocolate chips to make cookies.  I would knead my dough and make round cookies.  These would be baked and given to me to take home for my parents.

After I finished my baking, I always returned to the storefront.  Now was snack time.  All that work in the bakery made me hungry.  It was time to forage along the case and decide which of my favorite treats I should eat.  A crumb bun, a chocolate chip cookie, a linden tart, a black and white cookie?  Oh there were so many choices.  But these were my favorites.   Usually after breakfast, I would have a crumb bun.

There is a special way to eat it.  You put it on a napkin upside down.  Eat the cake first and save the crumbs for the last.  Delicious!  Great with a cup of tea!

My chores were not over of course.  After that snack, I always worked behind the counter.  There was a wooden milk carton to stand on to help the customers.  Grandma and I would work together.  But I got to put the money in the old cash register and give the change.

Our lives changed in 1969 when my grandfather sold the bakery.  No more early morning deliveries of bread and cake to our front door.  No more weekend baking expeditions.  My mother went for months looking for a bakery that met her expectations.  She finally settled on Hill Top, although it was not the same as my Grandpa’s baking, it was a wonderful second best.

But my grandfather did not totally stop baking. He moved some of his equipment:  giant mixer, baking trays, cooling racks, bowls, whisks and more, to his home in Kauneonga Lake, New York.

This began another adventure in baking.

Grandpa had all this equipment moved to his basement where he set up a little bakery.   He would make cookies, challah, cakes and pies. And we would help!  I learned many ways to braid a challah, among other skills.

I remember one time he made so many plum cakes.  Someone gave him a bushel of plums. We baked for an entire day. He made it into trays upon trays of cakes that he gave to Beth El Synagogue in Kauneonga Lake, for a Shabbat oneg.

Every year for Rosh Hashannah and Yom Kippur , he made dozens of round challah. We did not eat them all, so he must have given them to his friends.

Even though he was retired, he still would bake for Katz Bakery on the weekends. When my brother was old enough, he started baking as well and working for Katz, with my grandfather as his teacher.  My grandfather’s attitude was that learning a skill was important.  My brother became a chemist….perhaps all those recipes helped him learn formulas later on.

My grandmother and I worked at a Katz outlet in Kauneonga Lake. We were only opened on the weekends. But it was my first real summer job. I was only 14. There was no baking there, just a storefront to sell the cakes, cookies and breads.  I worked there for two summers.  It was very close to the post office; and friends would come and visit me when they got their mail.

I loved working there because it brought back memories of my grandparents’ bakery, but it was not quite the same. My Grandpa’s chocolate chip cookies were still the best.  His basement bakery was the source of many care packages sent to my brother and me in college.  Whenever the box of chocolate chip cookies arrived, my roommates and friends would line up for a sample.

To this day, when I enter a bakery, the aromas take me back in time.  I see my grandparents, I smell the bakery, I remember working with them and sharing precious time.  I am once again a child waiting for a favorite treat.