The first time I appreciatedthe story of the prodigal sonand how -- to the chagrinof the righteous brother who'd stayedat home minding his mannersalong with the company store --the father laid on dinnerwith cakes and wine galorewhen the selfish oaf went brokeand came running home for a blessing,instead of giving him a dressing-down, and a swift kick,
was when, a father myself,I tried my hand at bakingangels: thin, delicatemiracles -- performed without breakinga single wing! Forty-six,and then the last two felland shattered. It felt like hell.In spite of the forty-six,those two fell through my headfor half an afternoon.And I thought: if all this over shortbread,imagine over my son.
