CONFESSION: I can’t stop thinking about you. I keep imagining I see you through store windows. I ask for you all the time. I even thought I found you once, but it was just an imposter.
Since our fateful meeting in September, I’ve been dying to have you again.
It was a balmy afternoon in Granada when I first heard about you. Our tour guide casually pointed out a bakery we passed and mentioned something about “the best;” but I was so naïve. We were almost star-crossed lovers, but I ended up wandering past your bakery later that day so I poked my head in. I asked for you by name. I didn’t even know what you looked like.
In my hands you felt like a wet meatball; heavy, for your size. I think the cliché “good things come in small packages” was created just for you. You sat coyly in your little paper cup. Lifting you from this shell, you dripped caramel colored stickiness down my hand. I had never met someone so sweet! It took me by surprise.
My lips made contact and I wanted to swallow you whole. It took all my will power to hold back, but it was worth slowing down to savor every moment with you.
Since then, I have searched for you in the all places where one might find “your kind.” I thought for sure we’d meet again. Every time I think I have you, I’m confronted with the bitter taste of disappointment. No one has your flavour.
No one has your spongy middle. It’s never the same.
I miss your rolls, layered on each other. And the icing on the cake is your egg head; your big dollop of eggy-custard right on top of your stubby little frame. It makes my mouth water.
You’re THE ONE, Pionono de Santa Fe cake.
O Pionono, Pionono, wherefore art thou Pionono?
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