Split the loaf with a stranger

--------------------------------------------------------------- Dear reader, On a recent snowy Saturday, I ventured into my local bakery ([the very one I've written about before]() to pick up a loaf of bread before we welcomed houseguests for the weekend. The bakery is a zoo on Saturdays, and for good reason: the brunch is fantastic, the atmosphere cozy, and the expanded weekend menu something special. They bake up things on Saturday mornings they don't make on any other day. And so I was thrilled to slip into the crowded shop, packed with customers waiting for brunch tables, and see that they still had a single loaf of my very favorite Saturday-only offering, waiting on the rack like they'd been holding it just for me. I was eager to get home after my Saturday morning errands. This was my last stop, and I waited by the counter while the cashier finished ringing up another order. I was next in line, though people had begun to pile up behind me in the cramped space. It would be my turn in a moment. But then—another woman whooshed in from the cold, plunked herself at the counter, and said, Is this where I order bread? If she had been a regular, she would know to hang back; the cashier would call for the next customer when they were ready. But she wasn't, and she didn't, and without meaning to, she jumped the line. She proceeded to ask the cashier a dozen questions about the loaves available for sale: what were they called, how were they made, how much did they cost, which days do they bake each? You have got to be kidding me, I thought, knowing full well I could place my own order in 8 seconds and be out the door in 30. But she kept asking questions: What sandwich toppings would go well, and did it matter what kind of freezer bag, and how much was each loaf again? It's possible at this point I was noting that I could be home by now, making my second cup of coffee, because it was supposed to be my turn. But I was determined that optimism would rule the day, and I sincerely wished her well in her choice of loaves. Based on the conversation, I thought she might pivot to muffins—but alas, instead, she ORDERED MY LOAF. The one, single, special, Saturday loaf I had already mentally used in three different meals with our houseguests. The one I would now have to wait till next Saturday to get. The one she'd just told the cashier was "way too big for her." But she bought it, and then asked the cashier to slice it (How thick?, he asked, and they proceeded to discuss the various options). It was now well past the time I thought I'd be home, and nothing left in the case looked anywhere near as appealing as the bread—my bread—she'd be taking home with her. I could end the story here, with me acting like a brat about bread, but that's not what happened next. I had, in fact, just heard the entire conversation about her bread choice. So, while the cashier sliced her loaf, I stepped out of my introvert comfort zone and said, I hope you enjoy the mille, my family loves it. She told me she was excited to try it, that she'd heard great things about the bakery but this was her first visit, but that she wasn't sure how on earth she could use that much bread, and it's awfully expensive—she hoped it was worth it. And so I offered to split it with her, the cashier divided our neatly sliced loaf among two separate bags, and we had a lovely conversation—about the neighborhood, the town, our plans for the mille. (And at this point, involved in an interesting conversation, I was happy to chat, not nearly as eager to get home to my second cup.) Half was plenty—for both of us. I don't want to turn this into some magical encounter, because it was really pretty ordinary. But then again, perhaps that's the magic of it? (Book Clubbers will know what I mean when I say I have [Harry's Trees](=) on the brain.) In ten seconds, I went from feeling like a crank to feeling like a neighbor, from feeling self-righteous to feeling understanding—and understood. And we both left with half of that precious last loaf, and we were both very happy about it. Reader, I've been thinking about this encounter ever since: the limits of my perspective, the intentions of those around me, and my agency in all of it. It's only bread, but you know what? It's good bread. Popular on the blog: - Between a new year, the approach of spring cleaning season, and Marie Kondo's Netflix show, it seems that everyone has cleaning and purging on the brain. If you're staring at a daunting to-do list or closet, these [ten audiobooks]() are particularly well-suited to the task at hand, providing entertainment and inspiration while you purge, clean, and tidy. - We recently got to chat with Kelly Corrigan about her memoir Tell Me More in the [Modern Mrs. Darcy Book Club](). Many of my favorite moments in Tell Me More revolve around Kelly's friendship with Liz, so many of us wanted to ask Kelly: What are the baby steps in getting from here to there, from a shallow relationship to an intimate one? Kelly's advice is too good to keep to ourselves, so here's [her tip for having better conversations](. - Even if I didn't love Parks and Rec, Leslie Knope, and her favorite day of the year, Galentine's Day, any day is a good day to sit down with one of these great books focused on [strong female friendships](. [12 great books that celebrate the power of female friendship] On the podcast: - When I went to Scotland in December I packed my podcast recording equipment just in case and I'm so glad I did! This week I finally shared the episode I recorded with [a bookseller in Scotland's official book town](. - I think I succeeded in [this recent episode]( to convince a very practical nonfiction reader that fiction is worth some of her reading time. - The only thing better than talking to one reader is talking to two readers. I had so much fun [chatting with these two friends]( about their democracy-driven book club, radical self-care, and community building. --------------------------------------------------------------- [I'd Rather Be Reading is here!] Amazon currently has my book [I'd Rather Be Reading](=) on sale for only $8.80. Yes, that's for the beautiful hardcover copy. Now is a great time to treat your shelf—or the shelf of your friend, neighbor, sibling, partner, child, teacher, dog sitter, etc.—with this collection of charming and relatable reflections on the reading life. Happy reading, friends! Anne P.S. Nostalgia alert: if you'd like to read a very, very early MMD newsletter whose content is eerily similar to today's, [I've got just the thing for you](=). It's from August 2013, and back then I called it "One reason even introverts should talk to strangers." I do not mention bread. Do you have a friend who would enjoy getting these emails? Please forward this email on to them. [Modern Mrs Darcy](=) | 6000 Brownsboro Park Blvd Ste H, Louisville, Kentucky 40207 [Opt Out of MMD Newsletters Only]( | [Unsubscribe from all MMD emails](