Never Marry a Baker

Mr. Minivan, Boys #1 and 2, and I went into the city to Mr. Minivan's office yesterday. He had to do a little business, and we tagged along. After we left his office we walked around the neighborhood in search of food. Mr. Minivan remembered a NY-style pizza place that one of his employees had discovered. The pizza at Santullo's was thin, NY-esque, and delicious. It was so NY I could almost see graffiti appearing on the buildings across the street. After pizza and a salad, we decided we needed just a little taste of something sweet to finish off the night properly. We walked into
Sweet Thang , a charming little French patisserie with the most delicious tarts and other goodies. Boy #2 said his lemon tart was "one of the best desserts I've ever had." He may have meant "that day", but a compliment is a compliment. I asked the young woman with the French accent who was serving us if she was the baker and she said she was his wife. I had to ask. "When you start dating a baker, how much weight do you gain?" "Probably double where you start," was the shocking answer, "and then you lose it." Sounds like fun on the upside, no?