A Matter of Proper Crumb

Lingering indoors past noon turns one soft, so I took my afternoon constitutional down the pavement to the local bakery. Outside sat a wooden bench beside their chalkboard menu, where someone had carelessly abandoned a paper pastry bag. The top was scrunched up like a discarded handkerchief, and a single butter croissant was peeking halfway out into the open breeze. Allowing flaky pastry to turn leathery in the midday air is practically criminal. I marched across the weathered slats, took hold of the crisp brown paper with both fists, and gave it two sharp, precise folds downward to seal the warmth and butter right inside. A tidy package preserves both freshness and self-respect.