Parable of the Chocolate Croissant

 

The season of Advent is like a mother and child on a coffee date. Hand in hand, the sweet pair enters Elmwood Café on a frosty morning in Berkeley and stands before the counter in anticipation of the impending goodness. Before Mother even speaks the usual words -- What would you like, my love? -- the little love is hopping up and down on his toes, declaring in his highest, squeaky voice, I want dat one! He’s pointing to a perfectly plump, perfectly golden, chocolate-stuffed croissant behind the glass case. There is no hesitation in his voice, no doubt in his awakened eyes; he wants the chocolate croissant. Strands of fine, blond hair lift and fall into the air, as he continues to perform excited little hops. The mother smiles at the cashier, We'll take two chocolate croissants, please.

Choose a seat, Mother offers. There are sun-lit tables by the window, private circular tables in a dim corner of the cafe, but the child selects the brick red bar stools at the counter overlooking the bustling kitchen. The two wait on the stools for their morning chocolate. Just over the counter, stories of love-lives-gone-wrong circle over the whistle and whir of steaming milk and grinding espresso beans. Meanwhile, Mother’s little companion finds many things to do on the stool: he spins in circles, bottom on the stool; he lays belly over the stool, letting his limbs dangle down like a rag doll; he bridges his body across two stools and rests his silky head in Mother's lap. She gathers strands of the impossibly soft hair and twists them between her fingers. Moments later, when the pastries arrive, the child straightens his spine in the chair like a tree trunk and sits reverently before the treat.

 

The Mother studies the small blond creature at her side – this, of course, is the real reason for these dates. For to watch the child enjoy pastry is among the holiest ceremonies she knows. She studies the soft-bodied child, clothed in the turquoise, wool cardigan, his eyebrows lifted high over the two dark chocolate eyes. He looks the pastry over, tilting his head sideways to the right, then to the left. He is considering, she supposes, how to get to the real substance of the thing. How to get to the center of it all, she thinks…isn't it what we’re all trying to do?

The delicate treat is at last lifted toward the ripe plum lips and placed between two rows of tiny teeth. Busily chewing, the child glances in her direction with a mustache of pastry flakes. Mother imagines the pastry flakes melting into his tongue. For a long moment, the child sits still and quiet, as if pondering something carefully – a monk taking chocolate vows. Mother would love to know the thoughts in that three year old mind, but all she can do is wait and watch: his eyelashes as they lower and flicker with changing thought, his peachy little fingers fanned out, shining with butter and feathery golden, flakes.

The thoughtful boy makes another move, this time using his pointer fingers to tunnel into the pastry. The fingers disappear into the flaky flesh, and wiggle around in that hidden world. The woman wonders, What must it feel like inside that soft as-angels-world? All that pale light, those silky layers…a kind of magic. The little fingers emerge again and begin another approach, this time working to peel back the layers of pastry. The fingers  peel and fold, peel and fold. From his heavy mouth breathing, Mother can hear it is hard work. The child breathes this way whenever he is fixed on something; it is one of her favorite sounds on earth – the hymn of small, concentrating children.

After the patient toil of his hands, the chocolate center is visible at last. A bit hastily, the child lifts the torn apart thing to his lips and tries to get at the center of it with his tongue, but quickly decides that won't do. It seems the chocolate must be extracted. Again, the pastry is on the plate, layers splayed out in submission, and the determined fingers dig back in, this time pulling out the glorious rib of chocolate at long last. Without even a brief hesitation, the chocolate disappears into the wide-open tunnel of his mouth. The child examines the state of his fingers, in particular the amount of chocolate that coats his pearly fingertips and gives them each a good lick.

Mother breathes it in deep, the sacred, warm, coffee-bean air of this moment. Eyes closed, exhaling, she considers how to hold onto these moments. How can she keep forever the wildflower scent of her son's hair, his chocolate covered cheeks...if only she could bronze these moments in time like a pair of baby shoes; for she knows it is all as fleeting and fast as pastry on the tongue. But the moment is framed on the walls of eternity and she hopes that will be enough.


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You may want to check out the Elmwood for your own chocolate date -- and the VERY best hot cocoa.
http://www.elmwoodcafe.com/
And in case you can't make it out to the Elmwood, here's a little taste of it below: