“Take this home,” he whispered. “And don’t ever be ashamed of making something with your own hands.”
Those words stayed with me.
Years later, at twenty-nine, I opened a small bakery in Hopkins, Minnesota.
I called it Angstrom Bread.
Grandpa arrived before sunrise on opening day.
He brought a laminated recipe that had belonged to his mother, Ingrid Angstrom, who’d operated a bakery in Park Rapids decades earlier.
“This belongs on your wall,” he said.
He became my most loyal customer.
Every Thursday, he’d buy a loaf and stand near the counter watching me work.
I even saved the two-dollar bill he used for his first purchase.
For four years, my bakery was everything I’d dreamed of.
Then several problems arrived almost simultaneously.
My walk-in cooler failed.
Ingredient prices increased.
A wholesale customer closed his business while still owing me money.
I had another contract scheduled to begin in autumn, but I needed enough money to survive the summer.
