Morning all and welcome to another bright and shiny week. I hope you had a good weekend and are ready to start the day. I had a very good and relaxing weekend and last night has strange dreams about flying in an intertube. You know the large black rubbery ones you take on the river. They were mechanized and had joysticks to operate them. You still had to sit in them like you were floating in the river and no one liked that their rear ends were exposed to the ground below. Especially since out enemies had slingshots. Not that I remember who my enemies were or why they were my enemies. But that is neither here nor there. Let’s get on with the morning writing prompt, shall we?
This one is kind of fun. I have no idea where it is going. I think it is something I’d like to think about for a while and return to though.
Monday, May 17th: I carried the pastry gingerly until it was cool enough to eat.
I carried the pastry gingerly until it was cool enough to eat. As I walked I congratulated myself on being on time. The little shop around the corner made these delicacies only once a year. I had no idea what they were called and even after six years living in the neighborhood I had no idea what the occasion was that caused their creation.
The store owners were polite and pleasant, but weren’t inclined to elaborate. In truth I couldn’t really identify what language t was that they were speaking. Most of their clientele spoke the same language, although there were enough interlopers like me that I didn’t stand out. The owners and staff were always polite and always answered my purchasing related questions, but they did not invite non-pastry case related questions. Our conversations were relegated to the cost of my purchases and the wish for me to have a nice day.
I enjoyed their wares enough that I didn’t want to risk pushing and being turned away. I was a regular enough customer at the shop though that after six years I knew the schedule. This was not the only annual treat. There were several scattered throughout the year. They corresponded to no holidays or events I recognized so I started marking them on my calendar using descriptive terms. The day of the walnut honey cakes. The day of the poofy apple-y things. The day of the chocolate wonder.
While I had several friends who laughed at my calendar additions, I kept them for two very important reasons. The first was to look for a pattern. Did the days of pastry align with any knowable customs. While I was content to let my neighborhood pastry shop keep many of its secrets, I wanted to be able to place them in some sort of geographic arena. And maybe learn what each of these delicacies celebrated.
The second reason was so that I would not miss out on these delectable treats. I found out about the first one when I stayed out far too late and dawn was creeping in around the corners. I was designated as sober that night and after a long night out, I saw everyone home safely. I was walking down the street, eyes itchy from exhaustion and reevaluating my life when the most heavenly scent wafted towards me. I followed it as though in a trance and ended up in a line leading to my favorite shop. It was earlier than their normal operating hours and I wondered what was going on. When I reached the counter there was a card stating payment and a limit of two. I handed payment, took my two pastries and was nudged out of the door by the still moving line. No one said a word. By the time the regular operating hours arrived, the treats along with the silent line of customers were all gone. It was the same with each of the pastry treats.
Ten til Midnight 