In early August, I sat down at Torchy’s Tacos for two hours and wrote the rough draft of a children’s book. Mitch's parents were keeping the girls. This story had been brewing in my brain for over a year. I had already tried to write it a couple times. Each attempt fell flat.
But that day, fueled by two enormous tacos and a sense of urgency and freedom (I had finally sent my YA novel out to agents), I wrote something that felt good. My bakery book.
Every Wednesday night, Mitch and I welcome seven people from our church into our home. They come into the kitchen and make tea. One woman enjoys matcha. A couple of us drink sleepy tea. A pot of my rooibos chai steeps. We crowd into the living room.