My love affair with chocolate began over a decade ago at a mom-and-pop chocolate shop situated on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. The shop, still open today (to my surprise) is a teeny-tiny place easy enough to walk past and ignore. That is, if the door isn’t swung open.
After school, each day, I’d take a half-mile trek up to my mother’s workplace; I walked past the small chocolate shop for months with hope that I’d not walk in and clean myself out of my weekly allowance.
“I oversee the food and drink publishing at Chronicle Books in San Francisco.” I didn’t get it. I thought I was being pranked.
My memory heaved me back to a few months prior. I sat alone on the outskirts of Riverside Park, umbrella in hand, where I suavely obnoxiously laid a copy of that morning’s New York Times on the sodden bench. The fog was as thick as stiffly whipped meringue, the air smelled of dog breath and gasoline, and the trusty automatic umbrella I had since middle school graduation saw better days. Despite it all, I patiently waited it out to take a phone call from an acquaintance at a big publishing house there in the city. I was excited; I wanted to write a cookbook and I wanted to hear her honest opinion about what I should do next. After I stupidly confused the honks of several yellow cabs for my ringtone, my chunky silver flip phone vibrated and Pocketful of Sunshine pierced the humid September air as I shuffled to compose myself, “HELLO!”
Before I begin anything, I’d like to give a huge thank you to everyone who reached out to me and shared their support and love because of my last post. I can’t express how thankful I am for all of you and how honored I am to be trusted with your stories, as well. For those of you that haven’t received a response to your emails, I promise— I’m on it!
A little while back, I posted a self portrait on Instagram with a caption describing my instinctive desire for authenticity. Admittedly, this need was brought into the foreground because of a sore heart and selfishness— a positive form of the latter, at least.
This isn’t an entry of tear-thick protestations, or even a speech. Rather, it’s one of celebration, acceptance, and most importantly: clarity. This post is mostly for myself; it’s to document a nearly decade-long inner fight, and to mark the moment that I march to the beat of my own drum and do what feels right. This post is also to create some clarity for everyone in my life— some of my family, some of my friends, and for you; I feel this is necessary for all of us.
I had to come back and bring you Raspberry Cream Scones. The kind that are speckled with crimson-red berries and are infinitely tender, flavorful, and moist. I love berries, and when I’m stuck in my tiny town with only the grocery store to rely on, I know Driscoll’s will have an exceptional product I can rely on year-round. I know it’s not summertime here, but heartbreak knows no season or the holidays and when it demands you make scones speckled with berries at 6am, scones must happen. It’s as simple as that.
The funny thing about heartbreak is that we learn from our mistakes, but we also pay for them. It’s very much a sobering experience and, of course, an emotional one. And because we are all human, it’s almost embedded in us to find love– to find that one mate that makes our soul sing and dance like a child; oh, the innocence.