Out on the plaza’s lozenge Momma’s kitchen commanded a fine view—spires, domes, towers and irregular columns of gray and green—filling her horizons. Slavishly exploring the avenues of a culinary technique adopted many years before she would rarely leave the condensed-moisture walls of her L-shaped moisture-condensed kitchen. Only on occasions when she sought to involve our interests would she enter the chain of our inner rooms to announce her plans for the afternoon. Top of the list was a selection of her own favorites—fine pastry blizzards which though spectacular in themselves served here only to herald the arrival of our individual shooting stars—a centerpiece of sugar-coated bread in the form of a star held aloft on crisscross strands of marzipan baked in syrup. Later on in the evening bone-carved duplicates would be committed to the shelves of family mementoes. A song invariably accompanied the presentation of each piece, Momma taking the soprano lead whilst we followed in unison with an amateurish