MISSING YOU

On my cab ride to the train station, Belgian cab driver Eve asked me if I had missed anything in the States. I thought about it and actually said no. I hadn’t missed anything. I told her I was happy being in Belgium and living the moment. After all, I was in a different mode.

Now the tables have turned. I’m back in the U.S. and I’m actually missing something from the other side of the pond. I’m missing my croissant breakfast. Yes, those pillowy, buttery, flakey, mouth-watering, big-time fattening treats on your standard Belgian breakfast plate. I don’t know what it is that makes them so perfectly irresistible. I mean each bite has that bit of crunch that gives way to the soft inside and is sometimes met with that orgasmic ribbon of Belgian chocolate. The flakes float to the bottom of your plate like autumn leaves in Vermont. And like a big pile of leaves that you can’t resist jumping in, you can’t help but dab all those piles of flakes onto your finger and into your mouth, not wanting to miss one buttery bite no matter who is watching you. Yeah, they are THAT good, and I miss them. On the other hand, I don’t miss the five pounds I gained from eating them.