There’s this thing about the dark of winter that makes me want to do a certain thing that I know to be detrimental to both my health and my rapidly deteriorating appearance. On cold mornings when the sun is low and the skies are frosty I wish for nothing more than an espresso and a light, flaky, buttery, pastry. I don’t want for bacon and eggs, or toast and jam, or a skillet with meat and potatoes and cheese; I’m not a glutton like that. Just a simple espresso and pastry, maybe two espressos and two pastries. Certainly not more than two espressos and three pastries. You can keep your bacon and eggs and potatoes and leave me to my espresso and pastry. This is my only morning wish in the winter. At the heart of my issue seems to be that I have the same wish in the summer, spring, and usually fall.
