They say the devil is in the details, but mine’s a demon, and
it sits inside me quite comfortably.
Make no mistake. I like this demon.
Thirty years ago, from atop my bakery on Drury Lane, I spotted my first
pastry.
When I watch them, I feel the demon. I appease it with shameful rituals,
which I must admit I take much delight in doing.
Some days I simply watch them.
Some days the demon emboldens me.
Some days I follow the pastries, as I did again today.
I sampled from her what I needed, in the privacy of a school bus shed
on the outskirts of Westminster. From there I took her towards town,
to where I stored the others inside my bakery, next to the warm ovens
where the colors are bright and chipper.
I keep the obedient ones. They learn my selfish song.
I keep the bad ones too, but not their mouth parts.
I remove everything nice and discard the rest inside empty cinnamon
barrels.
I like cinnamon. It’s wonderful for hiding the odor of decay.
Baking requires creativity, and when a recipe is lacking, I substitute
eyes for egg whites, lips for filling, or thin-sliced tummy skin for
use on my award-winning caramel glaze! You’ve never tasted anything
like it, I’ll pinky swear to it.
My favorite pastry is “Rebecca” - but she seems a bit flat
as of late.
She’s trying to say something now, as I remove the black licorice
dough from her thirsty maw.
I like this part.
“Do you know me?” I whisper to her.
“Yes,” (Coughs) “…I know you.”
I love her so much. She always gets that part right, unlike the part
I took from her last week, which was still gathering flies. I’ll
have to discard her soon.
Baking holds back the demon, but only for a while. It always returns,
like a kid to a candy store.
The end.
