I can’t remember the first time dad and I went to Darby’s, but there were few weekends that we didn’t go.

We hopped into the “black sedan” and took the back roads to our favorite local bakery - venturing into “the country” even though we really were just one exit away from the highway. Dad always made it feel like a special outing.

The bakery was the epitome of what you’d want from a local spot - slightly off the beaten path and next to other neighborhood staples like a deli and butcher shop.

All customers were announced to the staff by a bell attached to the door. Patrons were greeted by the fresh smell of crusty, dense breads that sat cooling on the rustic, utilitarian wooden racks that were rolled in and out of the kitchen in back. The product spoke for itself.

We almost always got the same order: enough breads and pastries to warrant a large brown shopping bag to carry all of our bounty.

As soon as we got back into our car after packing up and paying, without hesitation, dad would reach into the bag and take out a sliced loaf that we would snack on the entire country car ride back home.