read in browser Last night I popped by my local grocery store, expecting the quiet lull of a rainy Saturday night — a handful of locals returning glass milk bottles and dropping a cheeky slice of brown butter cake into the grocery cart. The throng, then, startled me, and the roving line of harried teenagers and husbands clutching peach roses and wilted yellow tulips quickly clued me in. I’d forgotten, again — too many years chafing up against the expectations of this commercialized holiday....