Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

proving. He points at me. The sand next to me glows and a folded
piece of paper appears.
Reaching across my chest, I pick up the paper and unfold the
note.
Sunday. Noon. Be ready to work.
When I look back up he’s gone.
Mom and I stare at the glass display cases filled with shelf after
shelf of bakery goodness. There are trays of biscuits, baklava, cakes,
pies, and tortes. It seems like they’re all drizzled with honey and lit
just right to make the reflection hypnotizing. On the wall behind
the cases are shelves of baskets, overflowing with dozens of breads.
Everything from fist-sized olive rolls to three-foot-long tsoureki, a
braided festival bread Yia Yia Minta bakes every Greek Independence
Day. I bite my lower lip to keep from drooling.
“I’ve never seen such a variety,” Mom says, leaning closer to
examine the pies. “No wonder your grandmother is always baking—she
could make a different recipe every day of the year and
never repeat one.”
“Don’t tell Yia Yia Minta,” I say, “but these look better than hers.”
“I hope so.” A short, round, middle-aged woman wearing a white
chef ’s coat emerges from the back room, dusting flour off her
hands. “We have the Hestia Seal.”
“What is the Hestia Seal?” Mom asks.
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