I am here to admit: I have a problem.
I have been caught with chocolate covered cheeks, flaked fingers, and closed eyes many a time here in Spain. The pastry shops on the street corners sing my name with their sweet concoctions and homemade goods. Smells of freshly baked bread find me, and I swirl into a honey dripped dance as the floured hands of the pasteleria lure me in.
My sweet tooth has become my sweet teeth.
The regret of telling my host mom about my desire to indulge in all things dulce still eats away at me. I might have survived the temptation of the tantalizing treats in the stores had they not followed me home. But now I am doomed. Because once my Spanish host mother learned I was a inner gordita, she took it upon herself to make my outside match.
Within a day of expressing my love for pastries, a basket appeared in the kitchen. It held an assortment of muffins, croissants, and cakes. The chocolate and cream filled goods stared at me innocently and I immediately knew: this basket was mine. The magic didn’t stop there. I soon learned every time something was taken from the basket, a replacement was quickly put in its place. I am still not sure if an eager Keebler elf hides deep within a cabinet or behind the piña juice in the fridge, but I am in a serious mental conflict of whether I want to kiss him or kill him. He probably assumes I would eat him so he hides.
I slipped my secret about pastrydom to my real mother who said a few harsh, choice words that led to me giving up my addiction of all things breaded for a week. As the days went on my need to dip my hands into the weaved basket of regret suddenly disappeared. I felt as light as the delicate layers hidden beneath those damning and delicious croissants. A crazed idea of adding another week on to my “no pastry week” even crossed my mind…
But who am I kidding? I am writing you this with chocolate smeared over the top of my hand. Brown bits broken into pieces on my bed. The motivation to write about my successful week without pastries has been inspired by my current week dedicated to them. I am weak, and they are whimsical. All the hail the bread basket.
Basket of broken dreams
Because why walk through Spain when you can eat through it?
Here’s to making bad decisions that taste so good. Sorry mom!