A couple of New Years ago, I declared I was changing my stars. I was no longer a “pastry person.” I made up my mind to steer clear of sugar and become more of a chips, pickles, and humus person.

It’s difficult to recall what stirred this proposed metamorphosis, only that I wanted to change a core part of myself. I’d always been a dessert, candy jar, cookies in a hotel room, pastries on Sunday person. I kind of liked that about myself.

Until I didn’t.

What is it about this life that makes us question the bits we know in our bones are what makes us who we are? I’m guessing that year, it was easier to change from sweet to savory than it was to say, dig into my bag of life baggage and pull out something more substantial.

Whatever the reason, the idea like so many other times I’ve tried to part my hair on the other side, or convince myself I wanted to wear anything other than black, gray, and jeans–didn’t last more than a week.

I love pastries. I love a slice cake, or a piece (or seven pieces) of chocolate. I enjoy making a cup of tea, or finding an out-of-the-way spot on vacation to sit and enjoy flaky and fruity or chocolatey and nutty, or whatever else some brilliant sugar alchemist conjures up in their flour-dusted laboratory.

A few potato chips, and I’m done, but I’ve been known to polish off several cookies in one sitting. It’s difficult to know yourself. To turn down the chatter, boil some water, and sit long enough to figure out who you are and what you hold true.

I will spend my remaining time here digging into my life bag and unpacking whatever I discover, but a few days into this new year, I know one thing with clarity. Pastries are a gift, and when I die, I hope to have powdered sugar on my nose and a full, warm tummy.

My thoughts from the laundry room. Dust Ruffle.

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