The Italian dinners we had every Sunday when I was a boy were feasts fit for a king. There were     1     (loaf) of Italian bread ready to be eaten. They were great with butter and even     2     (good) when you dipped them in the sauce (调味汁) . My grandma,     3     was called “Nanny”, would always bake them a day ahead so they would be ready. I remember     4     (watch) her make the dough (面团) . I would often ask to help but only because I wanted to have     5     bite of the dough before she placed it in the pans to bake. One day I     6     (foolish) asked Nanny why she didn’t just buy bread at the store     7     (save) time. “Because they’re not as good,” she said in her thick Italian accent. Then she laughed, smiled,     8     gave me a piece of dough to eat. Nanny was right.

Today I buy my bread at the store and it isn’t as good. It is factory-made and     9     (lack) all the taste, warmth, and love that Nanny put into hers. Store-bought happiness is a sad substitute for homemade joy. If you want lasting love, permanent peace, and endless joy, then you have to bake them     10     your own.