For weeks on end I have been feeding an insatiable appetite. Trolling the fridge for fat-laden, cream-based anything; savoring hunks of bread laden with wads of peanut butter, stirring up huge bowls of mac and cheese, delving into the depths of the bag to find the saltiest, thickest chip.
I finally found time to run to my local book store with an hour to shop. With a foamy latte in one hand, I ran my fingers over the table of ‘Hot Summer Reads.’ Torrid love affairs and twisted family secrets offered up their titles. ‘Fiction and Literature’ tempted me with rich plot lines and deep moral exploration like something cooked long and slow, covered in a rich sauce. My mouth watered at the thought of finding the perfect book to read late into the night.
Finally, in ‘Mysteries’, I found a small cache of previously unread books from a known favorite author. I plucked two books from the shelf, paid in full, and ran to my car. I sat and looked into the small bag with a deep smile on my face; I had hit the jackpot and found not one book, but two. It was like opening the pink bakers box and finding that not only had the baker delicately wrapped the cool chocolate éclair in lacy paper, but he had also included a creamy hazelnut-vanilla cannoli.
Next time I find myself staring into the abyss of the fridge or the kitchen carb drawer, I think instead that I’ll go to the book store and pick up a delicious treat.