Magically Delicious

Yep, that pretty much sums up my life this week thanks to my recent employ at a gourmet, hand-crafted chocolate retail shop and its accompanying cafe. I am learning the art of living on coffee and chocolates, styling my hair to fit beneath a "bistro hat," and muscling my clammy hands into plastic gloves.

Our little shop is a dreamy sort of venue, located on Main Street in a charming New England downtown. From our vantage on the corner of the block, there are vignettes of the well-kept store fronts of other cafes, specialty shops, and assorted purveyors of local charm. As evening settles and business winds down, the world outside takes on the faint glow of the street lamps and the cozy lighting of little bistros. The pop standards wafting in the atmosphere of the store add to the 1940s aura encircling the premises.

In between my Katharine Hepburn-infused day dreams, I make any variety of stupid mistakes and constantly apologize for my utter lack of chocolate and/or espresso know-how. An ideal espresso pull lasts 18-25 seconds. Mine is about 2/3 of perfection, clocking in at 12 seconds. An eclair dipped in chocolate should be allowed sufficient time to drip so that there aren't little chocolate pools and tentacles all over the pastry. My fourth attempt was...close.

I realize the patience I possess in dealing with myself when I pipe a cannoli full of ricotta and sugar, dip it in pistachios, drizzle it in chocolate, and consume the confection. In an epiphany, I know that there is a God and that he loves me enough to make even the consumption of food such a glorious experience. So, perhaps it's not magically delicious. Providentially, divinely, generously delicious may be the more appropriate term.

Post-Card Sentiments

I've been dwelling a lot recently on that letter I received a few months ago. It was full of warning signs regarding things like depression, loneliness, and self-questioning in one's life after college. At the time, I found the sentiments disturbing and overly pessimistic. I wrote a reply in defense of optimism. It's been a while since I've heard from my correspondent.

I spend most evenings blurring past the dashed lines of the highway, feeling crushed by the intermittent sensations of boredom and being overwhelmed by my situation. I want to send a post-card saying, "YOU WERE SO RIGHT!" In giant letters, just like that. Defeat in these situations is utterly demoralizing. Sometimes optimism has to take a back seat to reality, I suppose.

I must remind myself, I will always have hope. I will cling to it like a board from a ship-wreck on a stormy sea. I'm grasping at splintering wood, because there's nothing else to keep me from drowning in open waters.