United States or Cuba ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
One day I chanced upon a sign hung above the doorway of a little German bakery over on the north side. There were Hornchen and Kaffeekuchen in the windows, and a brood of flaxen-haired and sticky children in the back of the shop. I stopped, open-mouthed, to stare at the worn sign tacked over the door. "Hier wird Englisch gesprochen," it announced. I blinked. Then I read it again.
There were Pfeffernusse; there, were Lebkuchen; there were cheese-kuchen; plum-kuchen, peach-kuchen, Apfelkuchen, the juicy fruit stuck thickly into the crust, the whole dusted over with powdered sugar. There were Torten, and Hornchen, and butter cookies. Blackie touched my arm, and I tore my gaze from a cherry-studded Schaumtorte that was being reverently packed for delivery.
She filled the paper cone, inserted the point of it into one end of a hollow pastry horn, and gently squeezed. Presto! A cream-filled Hornchen! "Oh, Blackie!" I gasped. "Come on. I want to go in and eat." As we elbowed our way to the rear room separated from the front shop only by a flimsy wooden partition, I expected I know not what. But surely this was not Blackie's much-vaunted Baumbach's!
Word Of The Day