Pastry

Stop. Just a second. Memories flooding. Vague. Like being in a foggy room with a fogged up mirror trying to figure out whether or not the straight-edge razor is going to kill you... (Editor's Note: Vague, like this paragraph.)

Memories of my eclairs and my father. Every Sunday he would come home with a dozen from the bakery. Every Sunday he would say, "Let's make this last."

By the end of every Sunday night they were all devoured. A house of sticky fingers: My sister, my mother, my father and I.

Even when my parents hated each other the eclairs kept the family together. It was therapy - stuffing our faces with dough and chocolate and creme. It was certainly cheaper than marriage counseling.

Fast forward seventeen years. Nothing has changed. We all still eat eclairs. Just not together.