Choux Pastry Heart

Alma remembers when she first met Kit in the haze of a delicious pastry-filled winter.

There's a science to all that's culinary.

It's not much science, but rather...art.

You have to know which flavors could blend with others, which spices to use that won't overpower or be too subtle for a dish. Each flavor had it's own purpose, they're the actors of the play known as your dish. They rehearse with their spices, they perform with their appearance, and you, the audience, judge whether the play is an amazing one or an outright disaster. But there is also the science portion: the measurements. You need to get the right measurements and then some to make the best apple pie, the mouthwatering German Chocolate 7-layer cake. The ever so delicate, ever so sweet, French pastry.

I have an impeccable sweet tooth; my mouth waters at so much as a sight of a sweet batter. I suppose that's why I'm stuck making sweets at Uncle Ronny's bakery. A reward in the disguise of a punishment for my lazy behavior during the summer. But who could blame me? All my friends are mothers now, and my family is scattered across the country. After I nearly burned Mama's house with my brownie lava cake, she decided to put me to work.

I've been here since Fall; my job consists of making sweets and arranging them in neat little rows, greeting customers with a smile and small talk. The only problem is our shortage of customers.

Racism is at an all-time high in Boston; they don't want any uppity niggers ruining white-owned businesses, apparently. Such words caused business to slow down, with one or two customers a day entering for a donut or even a slice of Cinnamon Spice cake. But they'd be damned if they were seen at a black bakery; as soon as they got their sweets, they'd duck out the back door without so much as a thank you. I should get offended, get angry at the stupidity of these people and kick them out, but I don't.

Mama always did say kill them with sweetness.

I still serve them, still pour their coffee and slice their cake with a warm smile. I wave at the fools who stand outside the shop with signs and death threats. I smile at the men who call me high yella up and down the streets. Though it somewhat solved the problem, it still didn't reel any customers.

Except one.

It's this man, who looks my age, maybe older, who comes in at 12:04 on the dot every Thursday, like clockwork.

He has dark brown hair and nervous brown eyes, like a skittish rabbit that's been kicked too many times. I'd look at him with pity, until he smiles. Oh, when he smiles, he looks so confident, kind, warm. Unlike the angry and cold stares of men his tone. He greets me, talks with me, and orders the same order every time.

Choux pastries. One slice of chocolate cake. One cup of coffee, two scoops of sugar and a splash of milk.

I wonder if he ever gains cavities and some pounds for such a sugared up order, but he doesn't. He comes in, at 12:04, and orders that same order, especially the choux pastries.

Choux pastry is a very delicate recipe that, when cooked right, has a fluffy, flaky, bite to it that gives way to the sugar, cinnamon, and caramelized apple casing. They're sugar biscuits, in a sense.

He's hooked on those pastries; he'd order them by the dozen and still pocket some for work. He dips them in the coffee and takes a bite, the flakes dotting his cheeks. He hums with approval and a smile, and takes another bite. And another. And before he knew it, half his bag is gone and he's covered in sugar and pastry flakes. The sight makes me giggle; sometimes I wipe his face with one of my napkins, smirking as his face turns red.

He looks like a child. An overgrown, messy child with a sweet tooth.

Today's Thursday, and I'm already getting his meal prepared. I am already molding the pastries into hearts. I want to make this one special, since the holidays are just around the corner. I work on the caramelized apple glaze, slice the chocolate cake, brew a fresh batch of coffee and check the clock simultaneously. 11:54. I have time.

Uncle Ronny had to leave for ingredients for the banana bread, and it's just me and Rochelle, my cousin. She's out the front greeting the brave customers that escaped the cold, their faces and noses all different shades of pink and brown. They remind me of over dressed penguins, waddling to their seats. I eye the clock. 12:00.

Four minutes to go.

I take the hearts out of the oven, gloss them over with the apple coating and set them aside to cool. I delicately remove the cake slice and place it on a plate I reserved for the special customer. I pour the coffee and plop down two sugar cubes and a splash of milk into the cup. I eyed the clock.

12:04. He should be here.

I exit the kitchen and hit the floor. He's nowhere to be in sight. It's 12:04; maybe the clock is a little fast.

So, I breeze through my day, serving sweets and eyeing the clock. When it's 7:00 PM, I knew it was closing time. I was busy cleaning up shop when a sharp rapping at the front door.

I looked up and there he was, at the door, with flowers in his hand.

I let him in, and is greeted by his smile and the bright colors of the floral bouquet.

"Sorry I'm late," he began, straightening his outfit and sitting down on at a table. He looked to me as I went to the kitchen to retrieve his plate. The coffee has gone cold, the pastries are stale, and the cake has lost its moisture. With any luck, I'll have to make another batch on both sides.

"I had gotten caught up with...oh I don't think you need any details. How was your day?"

"Good, just looking for my favorite customer. The usual?"

"Yep. I've been lookin for some sweet to brighten up my day." He winks at me. Blushing aside, I go right into the kitchen to make another batch.

He eats the sweets, his face brightening up at the flavor. He gives me praise for each sweet, making my ego inflate with every second. But he stops to talk to me, asking about my hobbies, my dreams and ambitions, and I tell him. He tells me about himself, from his job to his least favorite sweet. We laugh, we joke, and most of all, we enjoy each other's company. I like him, really like him.

But I knew we had to cut our conversation short; it's 9 PM and I need to get home.

"I think it's time for me to get home. I don't want to worry my mother." I said. He looks sad, but understanding.

"I'll walk you out."

"No, I'm ok. I don't want you to get in trouble for being seen with me."

"Is it because of our color?"

It isn't a question.

I bite my lips, trying to find a good enough lie to get myself out of it. I've got nothing. Instead, I urge him to the front entrance to leave, checking for any nosy onlookers. The snow and chilly air makes both of us shudder, but the man still looks at me expectantly.

"I'll see you around...?"

"Kit." He answers, grabbing my hand.

"Kit Walker." His lips grace over the back of my hand, and a jolt of electricity shoots through me. I jerk my hand and make my way out the door.

"Alma." I called out, pushing Kit out of the shop and locking it behind him. I smile at him and leave out the back door, but not before hearing,

"I think I'm in love, Alma. I'll sweep you off your feet, just you wait!"

I laugh.

Kit sure does have a strange sense of humor.

I like that.