Ms. Sarah M. Cash is a practicing hedonist who is in love with growing up and & has enjoyed failure as an appetizer before success. An Anne Welles, biding her time until she can move to a city (when she graduates), she believes in: slow dancing in the kitchen to the Drifters, writing inscriptions in books she gives as gifts, good conversation & comfortable silence, nights like jazz, monster babies, the Civil Rights movement & its continued applicability, Banana Cream Pie, and listening to the Ramones in lieu of modern medicine. She may be found facing the world with the perfect tube of lipstick and a helluva lot of sass.
The shoddy brown building that the bakery is in is deceitful. It suggests a bland confectionary, a slipping business venture that will soon be vacated. It is not the taupe neutral brown of dental offices or law firms that safely convey whispers of economic stability, where an influx of money is taken for granted, and the art is bought in bulk from mail order catalogs. The chipping dark mocha of the bakery and the handwritten “Come in we’re open,” sign taped in the window brings a skeptical glance from first time patrons. That is if they even chance to get out of their vehicles. We venture in to the bakery, and it’s as if we’ve annoyed him. An olive-skinned Grecian with blue shadows under his eyes emerges from the back appearing as if he’s been disturbed from a nap. Inside the décor isn’t much better. There are maps of his homeland unframed, tacked to the walls. There are faded blue and white flags that droop over the display cases. “What can I help you with,” he says in a tone suggesting anything but a helpful attitude. If it weren’t for the honeyed phyllo baklava, the white powered sugar dusted cookies, and the bars of imported chocolates stacked in boxes, I’d have turned on heel and left. Instead I level him with a gaze and raise an eyebrow. I point here, there, and quickly snip out my orders with displeasure. He has an arrogant aquiline nose that breaks my heart, and his heavily lidded eyes meet mine unflinchingly. We glower and the tension is palpable, and then he procures a sample for me, passed over the counter in a napkin. He watches with a smirk, and when I take my first bite of a slice of Amygdalopita, I know he’s won. I “mmmm” loudly, a white flag of sorts, and he dusts his floured hands on his apron modestly. He grins finally, “You like it?” I blush rosy with astonishment, and in that first bite, a friendship. He chats, and his accent fills the room, rolling and trilling. It’s so unfamiliar and interesting, a mystery to my ear. Here she and I stand like messy children in front of him, and it’s better than any drug: licking our fingers, tonguing our palms, sighing soft contented moans. Our little “Church of Food,” with sticky honey haired choirs and cinnamon sprinkles on our lips. “Amazing,” I say in lieu of a goodbye. He nods victorious, still eyeing my pink cheeks as I slip out the door, my endless chatter silenced for once.
