Today we woke to a thin sheet of ice frosting our world, from car windows to deck slats. Suddenly, after long, languid days of Indian summer, it was winter again. Swimming with the tide, my husband, my daughter and I bundled up and piled into the car for a little zen driving.
What should we happen upon, but a musty and vast antique market, a farm breeding miniature donkeys, and this...the Das Meyer Pastry Chalet. Who, I ask you, could drive past a sign reading "pastry chalet"? Not us.
This working farm, complete with windmill, has been serving as a family-run handmade pastry bakery since before suburbia encroached on the high plains surrounding our fair city. Three generations of farmers-slash-bakers were present on the premises, cooing to their babies, arranging pastry cases, and dreaming up fanciful wedding cakes.
What more could anyone hope for on the afternoon of a high-plains ice storm?