Tag Archives: literacy

Have You Hugged Your Bread Today?

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We absolutely love when an author brings their talent and enthusiasm to our story time, but Pooja Makhijani scored an absolute first when she brought her personal starter to share along with her newest book, Bread is Love! Please enjoy my interview with Pooja later in the post, and at the very end, don’t miss a chance to enter an awesome little giveaway!

We read Bread is Love, written by Pooja Makhijani and illustrated by Lavanya Naidu (Roaring Book Press, 2026). It’s the weekend, which means it’s time for mama and her children to bake bread! With warmth and enthusiasm, we join the family through the entire process of bread making, from the oozy starter to a delicious fragrant loaf. There’s even a recipe in the back!

After she read her book, Pooja handed out stickers, pencils, and talked about the steps of bread making. Then she amazed us all by introducing a very special guest – “Mr. Willdoughby,” her 10 year-old starter. He smelled absolutely marvelous.

Wanting to get little bakers started on the right foot, we had them customize white aprons with fabric markers, and tucked a sample pouch of Model Magic “dough” into the pocket. Note the various bread-themed illustrations that bedecked some of the aprons.

There was a chunky croissant…

A fluffy muffin…

And a border of green croissants and blue baguettes!

After we finished our aprons, we were joined by a giant, extremely huggable, 30″ bread pillow. The hugging quickly evolved into an impromptu game of “Hug & Toss” which eventually became “Loaf Hide & Seek.” If you ever want to liven up a story time, by all means, introduce a giant bread pillow!

After the loaf was all hugged out, I caught up with Pooja to chat about her delightful work…

Hi Pooja! Please tell us a little bit about yourself!

By day, I manage communications and marketing strategy for the Princeton Institute for International and Regional Studies, an academic department at Princeton University, and serve as co-editor of Princeton Int’l, an annual publication that highlights the University’s international initiatives and projects. Outside the office, I channel my creativity into baking and writing children’s literature! I’m the author of four books: Mama’s Saris, Bread Is Love, Together For Mama (June 2026), and Aunties (2027). My writing has also appeared in The New York Times, The Atlantic, WSJ.com, The Cut and Bon Appétit, among other outlets. A lifelong Garden Stater, I’m also a 2026 New Jersey State Council on the Arts Individual Artist Fellow in prose.

How did this book come to be?

Bread baking entered my life during a difficult divorce a decade ago. What began as a coping mechanism grew into a grounding ritual, one that calmed my anxiety, deepened my connections with others, offered weekly sustenance, and nourished me creatively as both an artist and a photographer. During the pandemic, I took stock of the creative work I felt called to do. Telling a story about bread, and honoring everything it had come to represent for me, like science and self-care to sustenance and sharing, felt like the most natural place to begin.

In early drafts, I mapped out the mechanics of making a loaf—gathering ingredients, mixing, fermenting, shaping, and more. With time and my editor’s guidance, I wove into those early drafts the elements they lacked—and that became central to the book’s message: patience, adaptability, and attentiveness as essential baking skills; the way baking itself nurtures hope; and how bread, in all its forms, connects us across cultures.

Not to spoil your beautiful Author’s Note, but can you tell us about how you “bake in” the new year?

In 2016, I founded a new family tradition: my daughter and I “bake in” the new year. Each year, on December 31, we choose a bread recipe—cinnamon raisin bread, milk bread, brioche—and make sure that our loaf of bread emerges from the oven at the stroke of midnight. (We aren’t always successful in this regard; bread can be temperamental.) The bread then becomes breakfast on January 1, topped with runny yolks or slathered with jelly or dipped in olive oil. This rite steeped in togetherness and warmth and bounty, reminds us that life has seasons and that time is supposed to pass. It’s also delicious!

Please tell us about the distinguished Mr. Willdoughby.

I’ve been a Janeite since I was 12 years old. Pride and Prejudice was my favorite book as a teenager; as an adult, I reread Persuasion at least once a year. It’s customary for sourdough bakers to name their starters; “Mr. Willdoughby” is my humble homage to one of the greatest writers in the English language.

Mr. Willdoughby has been my steady companion for 10 years. Ironically, John Willoughby, his namesake, was not constant. But I do believe he genuinely loved Marianne Dashwood, and his confession showed real remorse. Despite his lack of steadiness and discipline, he meant well. He’s also not as slippery as Austen’s other scoundrels, like George Wickham or William Elliot. Mr. Willoughby was also very handsome, attentive, and passionate—the perfect qualities for a starter.

If you had to eat only ONE bread for the rest of your life, what would it be?

This is an impossible question! I would have to say naan with ghee, minced garlic, nigella seeds, and fresh coriander. My homemade naan have a crisp exterior and a pillowy core, a wonderful “chew,” a slight tang and a distinctive char, and best paired with rich, aromatic grilled meats and curries. I’m hungry now.

Giveaway alert! Readers who live in the United States can win a Bread is Love pencil and sticker set! Simple email cotsenevents@princeton.edu and tell us your favorite type of bread! Three winners will be randomly selected on May 26th 2026 and we’ll mail your prize to you! Good luck!

Dearest Gentle Eaters…

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Lady Katherine is at it once again, testing this season’s most delectable diamond, the official Betty Crocker Bridgerton crème puff kit. Will it be a scandal? Or a victory of the highest order? Take it away, Katie!

One might assume that a humble boxed dessert would inspire little more than passing interest. Such an assumption would be most misguided when the creation in question bears the elegant influence of Bridgerton.

This exclusive kit was acquired from Target at the modest cost of $7. The kit itself arrives thoughtfully assembled, providing the essential mixes, parchment paper, and even a piping bag, as though the baker is a person of leisure attended by unseen kitchen staff. One need only supply butter, eggs, milk, and water. In theory, it was simple enough.

Alas, dear reader, even the most straightforward recipe may betray the inattentive.

My first go was marred by an overindulgence of butter, which was a regrettable misreading on my part. The result was a batter so scandalously runny it would have surely set tongues wagging. It was, in short, a culinary catastrophe. No amount of hope, flour, or desperate stirring could rescue it.

But perseverance, as any devoted viewer of Bridgerton knows, is often rewarded. On my second attempt, armed with proper measurements and a far more discerning eye that was aided by reading glasses, the results were nothing short of triumphant:

The puffs emerged from the oven with a delicate golden-brown hue, though they did require a few extra minutes to achieve the desired color perfection. The pink whipped filling, mixed by hand, proved delightfully airy, if a touch unruly during assembly.

As for the taste? Divine. The pastry itself is tender and pleasantly buttery without veering into excess, provided one is able to avoid earlier mistakes. The filling offers a gentle sweetness that complements rather than overwhelms. The crème puffs are a dessert of quiet indulgence.

 

A word of caution to those who may try this mix: restraint is key. Overfilling the puffs leads to an unseemly escape of cream, a most inelegant affair. I would also advise allowing the assembled puffs to rest in the refrigerator for several hours, permitting the filling to set properly.

The Bridgerton crème puff kit proves a charming addition to any gathering, particularly where a light yet satisfying dessert would complete the meal. And despite my initial misstep, the final result is well worth the effort.

Recommended…most enthusiastically so!

This post was partially composed using this hilarious Bridgerton translator. 

350 for 50

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350 fo 50_2017We are very excited to announce this year’s winners of our annual writing contest! Writers ages 9-16 were challenged to compose a short, 350-word story that included the sentence “Immediately, it was upside down.” In addition to having their stories illustrated with original artwork, each winner enjoyed a $50 online literary shopping spree. Congratulations to all!

Illustrations by Aliisa Lee

PENCIL
By Xinyi Xie, age 9

I am up high, part of a monstrous Oak tree. Every day is like the one before: I find myself a bit taller, the morning sun hurts my eyes. (I do not have eyes), I wait as creatures pass by, during noon, my leaves gracefully soak the sun, then it gets dim and stars twinkle above me.

Today is like any other day- Suddenly, my ears heard an eerie rumbling noise (I didn’t have ears). A creature uses a thing to cut down me like the ones that they used to cut down my treemates. The creature put me on a truck ( I did not know what a truck is) then the world is black.-I mean it totally wasn’t.

I get put on a track and entered a silver box and when I came out of the box, I am a small cylinder and I have black stuffing inside me, I am coated in yellow, and I have a bouncy pink thing an end of me the thing takes me to a place where my end without the pink thing gets sharpened. “Aaaaaaah!!!” (I can’t scream). I am put in a box where I wait, wait, and wait when I finally get to come out. I look around and I realize that I am surrounded with tons of creatures. I panic.

The box was better than this. Now, a giant creature loomed over me and its sweaty hands were grabbing me. I stared out the window looking at the trees. Immediately, it was upside down. My sharp end smashes into the floor and I shut my eyes because I am scared. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahh” I found out that I got shoved into a hole that made me sharper. A big hand grabs me. My heart starts pounding (I do not have a heart) “Marcus! What did I say about using the sharpener in the middle of class?” The big creature taps me with my pink and sharp end. Every day is like the one before. Until I get snapped in half and a creature throws me into the deep, black void.

UNTITLED
By Wonbi Kim, age 11

Today was the day. Deep down, I knew it had to be someday.

I roll out of bed and throw on some clothes. Walking downstairs, I’m not surprised that Dad is not here. He really hasn’t been, ever since…My mom died. On that fateful day when the cancer had finally taken her, everything changed. Now I was alone. But, today, maybe it would be different. Mom had left one last message for me before she passed. I found it a day later, taped under my lamp:

Annabelle,
There is one last thing I must give to you. This joy has been yours all along. Whenever you’re ready, tap on the back of Grandma’s mirror three times. What happens next is forever yours to treasure.
Love, Mom

I don’t know if I am ready, but would I ever be? Trembling with both fear and anticipation, I slowly walk down the hall to Grandma’s mirror. I couldn’t hesitate and I couldn’t turn back now. I delicately turn the mirror around and tap three times.

Everything spins. Streaks of vibrant colors dance before my eyes. The wall in front of me begins to flip. My whole world begins to flip – sideways and backwards and in ways I don’t understand. Immediately, it was upside down. And, in that upside down, is something beautiful. A universe of radiant color and light and life lie before me. Strangely, peaceful understanding settles over me as I gaze into this mystery. I take one timid step into the land before me. I look up into the heavens, searching for any sign of my mom. And, just in case she is up there, watching this land, watching me, I fall to my knees and think: thank you for all that you’ve done for me. Thank you for blessing me with this land of beauty and peace. Yes, I will treasure it forevermore.

And then I whisper the words that I’ve been waiting to say for so long: Thank you so much for being my mother.

THE ACROBAT
By Adela Sullivan, age 14

The girl knew she could fly.

She had only felt it briefly before, the freedom of soaring through the air like a bird freed from its cage. So although she stood firmly on the acrobat’s platform, her legs were shaking. The spotlights made her glimmering costume blink like a golden beacon towards the audience. How easy it would be to simply watch someone else, their lives of no consequence! For the crowd, it was just entertainment. But for her, the amount of things that could fail was enormous. A millisecond of error could mean freefalling to the ground below. She had imagined this moment in her dreams and it followed her around every corner.

All she had to do was jump. Of course she could do it, but only in practice. She could easily visualize the long family line of flyers that came before her. Generations of acrobats soared back long before her time. Sometimes the girl could feel the weight of her lineage crushing her, squishing her into a mould that didn’t quite fit yet. Still, the freedom of soaring through the air released her ever so temporarily.

The acrobat’s swinging bar awaited her.

Her heart pounding in her chest, she bent her knees. Forever, the girl would remember the feeling of leaving everything when she leaped. Nothing but the raw terror of being completely alone filled her now.

With a start, she remembered her freedom and those who came before her. Had they felt the same on their first flight? The thought invigorated her. Adrenaline and euphoria coursed through her, easing her fear. She twisted mid-air. She flipped. She somersaulted! Below her, the world spun simultaneously. Immediately, it was upside down! A laugh of pure joy bubbled out of the girl as she flew from her cage.

The crowd gasped.

The girl’s toes touched the edge of the second platform, her body sighing with relief. A thunderous applause shook the arena as she took a low bow. She steadily recognized nothing else could stop her; she had flown and was free.

A FISHERMAN’S YARN
By Gillian Appelget, age 15

The watch boat lingered on the horizon. The ocean was a mirror held to the silvery sky, and seabirds trailed overhead on long white wings. I knew, however, that the stillness only concealed teeming water beneath, as small baitfish would rise to the surface.

I assumed they sought refuge from the chaos below, but found only the gulls. I, too, intended to disturb the silence here. I dropped my line in and watched the bait fade from white to blue to nothing as sunlight was filtered out by the sea. My kayak cut sharp eddies through the latent water while I pedaled. The gulls circled in the clouds like vultures. A breeze sent small wind-waves running north.

Before I could relax, my rod was almost torn from my hand, bending into a sharp arch. The line flew from the reel with an insectoid buzz. I scrambled to set the drag while the kayak turned sharply to starboard. The line went slack and my stomach sank with disappointment before a form rose violently from the water. The marlin leaped, then crashed back into the sea, dragging my kayak behind it.

Immediately, it was upside down. The salt stung my eyes and the cold water shocked me motionless. The ocean expanded in every direction around me, and a cloud of bubbles swarmed towards the surface. I followed them, gasping frigid air and reaching for my overturned kayak. The marlin, undeterred, nearly dragged me away. I managed to grab the side of my kayak, using my weight to flip it over. Dizzy from the chill, I somehow struggled back in.

I fought the fish until the sun stained the sea gold. Only then did it begin to tire, and my kayak came to a rest off unfamiliar coastline. The marlin’s bill pierced the surface and I apprehensively reached for it, but recoiled after the fish thrashed. The marlin’s fierce blue eye reflected the yellow of my kayak, of which it was nearly as long. I reached out again, and cut the line. The gulls called quietly as it darted back into the deep.