Some people can generate a palpable physical rage over the Enron debacle. We can generate one over the infuriating fact that A Baker's Wife's is not located in our local neighborhood commercial node. It's simply impossible to overpraise the baked goods that come out of this place: lemon bars like butter made into sunshine; pecan tartlets as crumbly and fine as those in any French restaurant. Nor can you oversell how small-town nowhere the place feels: an awning that looks straight out of 1972 Brainerd; a little tray off to one side with napkins and stir sticks that looks like it was assembled for a last-minute PTA meeting; and low, low, unreasonably low prices that make you want to tuck a $20 bill under the register on your way out. A recent revelation was the croissants: enormous half-moons of crimped and rolled pastry, crisp and flaky outside, tender and melting inside. The chocolate ones have a lush crumbly center of excellent-quality chocolate. They make any morning feel like a luxurious gift. They taste perfect. Uh-oh. We'd better lay off--we're starting to generate palpable physical longing.