I realized two things today.
1. Not all cinnamon buns are created equal.
2. People will only believe in you as much as you believe in yourself.
You may be asking yourself what either of those things have to do with each other, but no matter how long you ponder that conundrum, you won’t find the answer here. It was just a matter of coincidence that I had a religious experience while eating and then later the same day realized that I can’t strike myself out without at least swinging first. Or was something more spiritual afoot?
All I know is that there was a higher power favoring me today. Let me back up a little and tell you what happened.
The morning started with a phone call from Jeaniene Frost and a much needed kick in the pants. She did it relatively kindly, but you don’t disagree with the woman. In any case, she really got me thinking. And where do I have the best epiphanies? In the car of course!
It was just meant to be that we had to go into Vancouver this morning and were in a rush. It’s a long drive so I grabbed a few snacks as we rushed out the door — we hadn’t had a proper breakfast, you see. In any case, no one found the bananas, protein bars and water appealing. We were itching to be done with our errand so that we could grab some Mexican at Chronic Taco. Hubs just recently discovered the place and I was jonesing for their enchiladas and all the fresh toppings they apparently pile on — I’d been hearing about it all week!
As I sat in the office waiting area, my stomach grumbling in protest, I noticed that every other person passing by on the street outside was carrying a little bag with a burgundy logo on it. It was the logo of the place next door. A place that didn’t belong among all the warehouse type buildings surrounding it. Truth be told, we we first arrived and I was looking for a parking spot, the word ‘bakery’, where there shouldn’t have been, caught my eye. A beacon guiding me to it’s yeasty goodness amidst the concrete jungle.
Now I’m no fool. Bakeries are dangerous places and you should never look one in the eye. But as we exited the office building we were in, I fought the compulsion to look to my left and failed. I was mesmerized. There was a visible jet stream of steam, apple cinnamon perfume and Bread eddying around the curb. It coiled sweetly around me and with it’s insubstantial yet surprisingly strong limbs, and shoved me through the door of Terra Breads.
Sweet Lord! It didn’t appear to be this large on the outside! Was there an Unseelie Silver hidden somewhere in the building? Before I could contemplate the thought that perhaps JZB had a hand in this spatial disorientation, I noticed what was right in front of me. It was a full bakery with an ‘L’ shaped counter covered with all their goodies. Another station behind the bakers was where they made sandwiches and soups and organic salads. My eyes widened as I tried to take it all in. The Breads were so beautiful. Three different olive breads, sourdough, focaccia, and pumpkin seed — they beckoned like hookers on a Friday night, curling their crusty fingers at me.
Reigning in my Bread fantasies, I gathered what little willpower I had left and let my family choose their drug. We ended up with some delicious focaccia breads, an olive loaf, a hot cross bun, and 2 caramel pecan cinnamon buns. We quickly divvied up our haul and dug in as we headed home. There was no point in going to Chronic now, not with all this Bread filling the air in the car with the most delicious smell.
The individual focaccia’s were still warm. The melted cheese crunchy around the edges, the salty flavors playing so well against the little potatoes nestled in its folds. Yumm-o. But, when in the presence of the Caramel Pecan Cinnamon Bun, those other Breads were mere mortals.
I wasn’t even going to eat one. I wasn’t going to go into that bakery. I wasn’t going to write about this — dammit I’m hungry! But intentions are nothing but poor justifications for our faux pas’, aren’t they?
The caramel was not overly sweet, but buttery with the barest hint of salt. The pecans salty and roasted to perfection. The bread, warm, soft, delicate and melt in your mouth light. The perfect balance of sweet and salt, soft and crunchy. It was wholesome but completely sinful because of my reaction to it. Oh god, it was orgasmic. And I am forever ruined. No dessert will ever hold a candle to this…this, Cinnamon Bun.
As we drove home, the impact of this innocuous little Bun started to break through my dessert coma affected mind. Who would suspect this little Bun of being anything but a second rate contender to all the other yeasty competitors born and bred in the ring of this bakery. Surrounded by handmade rustic fruity tarts, macaroons, biscotti, shortbread…For godsakes, Belgian Chocolate Brownies! But it stood strong, with its back up tall, its made from scratch caramel dripping down its sides, its pecans protruding proudly from its crown. It said, ‘give me a shot, I ain’t half bad.’ And that’s when it hit me, I am the Caramel Pecan Cinnamon Bun.
I will not sit around to stale and mold. Glory found on the 50% rack the next day. Well actually, the 50% off isn’t so off the mark. One phone call with Jeaniene Frost, lot’s of encouraging by Engarde, Kyatty, Cpb, Tradermare and Hubs later, I finally put up some information about what I can do with Photoshop. Which I offer at an incredible rate, by the way. And a section for work I’ve already done. If you know anyone in need of some graphic work, please pass on my information! I may just mail you a Caramel Pecan Cinnamon Bun in kind!
Wish me luck and a cure for this addiction I’ve developed!