When I was growing up, the idea of buying a cute pink sugar-iced butterfly cookie from a bakery was roughly analogous to the idea of punching a small, club-footed child, taking his money, ripping it up, setting it aflame, and then, in the light of the flickering cash fire, jumping up and down on his whimpering, collapsed body. "What are you, a Rockefeller?" my grandma would mutter, dragging me past the bakery window on our way home to ketchup sandwiches. Thus, I conceived a lifelong idea of Rockefellers, gathered in the marble atrium, lolling on brocade couches, wearing silk top hats, delicately eating cookies shaped... More >>>