When my daughter was a child, my husband, Cretan born and bred, would drive us through the narrowest of risky roads, clinging to cliffs that dropped hundreds of metres down to rocky ground. And all of this, in the hope of making contact with this precious powder! The promise of snowflakes from the heavens, floating onto expecting tongues, or entangling themselves into a fence of luscious little lashes, only to disappear within seconds of their otherwise, smooth landing, was certainly a sight to see!
But when left untouched, a wonderland of white puffy cakes, 'baked' on the premises, sit still on tiers of chilled iron, in this icy bistro, in a snowy square, high up, in the air.
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