Day 17, More Food, Less Writing

This novel is being fueled by cleavage and soup.

At least for today.

I didn’t write today.

I know.

I failed.

But in an hour it’ll be Day 18 and I’ll probably still be awake and with any luck I will be writing.

I had my last yoga class with Michael then continued to run errands downtown that included trying on new jeans because my normal pair is now getting baggier. Baggier then my phat pants, which I have been told, make me look short and wide. I guess I’m old enough to know that my jeans shouldn’t be a throwback to gigantic-legged raver pants.

I just tried things on though just to gage what actual size I am these days.

Vegan flan was a success! Though it’s more a panna cotta then flan. It’s amazing how easy it was to slide my spoon into its creamy texture and with one bite I’m eating my auntie’s leche flan. The orange zest and the juice of 1/2 a satsuma brought it home for me. I’m twelve years old shoveling the stuff into my mouth with complete disregard for the dozen egg yolks in it and not to mention the indescribable amount of condensed milk. For some reason the leche flan was always in a heart shaped mold of some sort. When I grew older and was well aware of how bad this dessert was for me I still had some. It would sit there on the table, molded into the shape of love. ‘Come to me and I will make you happy,’ it said. ‘And then you will die because I will kill you.’

When I moved away from home I found myself running away from the death grip of flan and into the dangers of the North End in Boston.

I lived across the street from a 24 hour bakery named Bova’s.

It’s a wonder I did not have an eating disorder living on Salem St. no matter how badly I wanted one or thought I needed one. I was desperately in love with a boy who I was convinced would love me if I was 20 lbs. lighter. It was easier to walk across the street at 4AM and eat several cannoli then it was to deal with the fact that it didn’t matter how heavy I was, he was in love with someone else.

All this and my vegan panna cotta has brought me right round like a record to Fred. It’s like playing Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon except with pastries.

I find that I can’t stop eating the panna cotta knowing that it is in the fridge. I look at them and I know that they are 90% fat. I cannot be 90% fat so I’m going to feed them to homeless kids on Haight St who can use some coconut cream in their diets otherwise I will be fitting into my phat pants in a bad way.

My characters are currently in Boston. I should make them go to Bova’s at an ungodly hour for eclairs.

Ok, back at it.

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