there is no crying in chocolate croissants

another ten minute quick write from the prompt the particular sadness of lemon cake. enjoy and hope you had a great weekend! in sf it actually became summer. . .

The particular sadness for me in a lemon cake is that it exists. I feel like it is a waste of space, sugar, butter, flour, and love wasted on a beautiful cake. Cake of lemon. See I don’t despise lemons all the time. I am fine with them taking up real estate in my water or ice tea or squeezed over my fish or on top of my salad. But in my cake, in my dessert, in my little piece of heaven, I would have to say thanks but no thanks. See as I walk into a bakery one of my favorites like tartine or sand box- the lemon cake, the lemon tart, the lemon anything doesn’t exist for me. I am addict of chocolate, my solace is morning buns, I would probably give up a good conversation for an almond croissant. I love these. They bring me nothing but happiness, pure- bliss- pure- joy.

So the particular sadness I have lemon cake isn’t for the lemon cake itself but for the sadness I feel for it not being what I love. What I truly love. Love that complements my day, my hour. I love the feeling when the bakery smell hits my face. Eyes glisten in anticipation. It smells like home. It smells fresh. It smells new. It smells nothing of lemon.

The sadness I feel for the lemon cake is it doesn’t complete me like the others. You sign up for a long night of dancing and drinking and fun and instead are sitting at a group dinner table arguing over who owes what on the bill. The lemon cake tartness reminds me of the lemons, the lemons, the lemons I thought were lemonade or belonged it my water or ice tea. I thought they were like me. I thought they would make me happy. Make me happy. But alas it wasn’t the chocolate of my dreams. My dreams. It just was lemon cake and there I sit again alone reminiscing on what was, what could have been, what I did wrong. What I did right. I try to forget the memories of the morning buns the cinnamon and citrus perfectly perfectly blended together. But it doesn’t last long, long before it’s gone again. Gone again. I try to remember the memories of the good sweet stuff without feeling the urge of running to my nearest bakery to revenge these feelings for what was. My desserts idealized into, into, into the beginning. The sweetness of the beginning.


The sadness I feel for lemon cake is sadness I feel for the end. The end. Because at the end of it all I’m always eating something I hate. I hate. But I force down each bite, each bite like an anorexic being watched by her support group or family at dinner. I swallow it done. I mourn for the loss of the pastries and cakes that completed my soul. My soul in the moment in the day, in the months, but never does it stretch to the years. Lemon cake for me is mourning. Mourning what was, mourning the walk into the bakery. Mourning, mourning, mourning. I hate it but I still eat it. But there is also the lining of my chocolate croissant of the future. The commingling of the almonds and pastry dough does exist for me. The future that will make me feel complete again. Again.