Anca, dinner. It could be heard from the third floor of a tower block over the whole neighborhood. What are we eating, I asked from downstairs for fear that the neighbors would be curious. I’ve got creamed sugar and mashed potatoes in the oven. Come on up. When I walked in, I’d see the same white bowl of steaming parsnip soup and the cornerless bread waiting for me on the table. I got tricked …
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