“I’m not a foodie. I’m a fattie.”

I wish I could call myself a foodie. But alas, I’m not; a while back I tweeted: “I’m not a foodie, I’m a fattie. Wise words of my food soulmate, @NicoleDarmanin. Couldn’t have said it better [myself]…” all the while inhaling an espresso cream puff. How very appropriate, no?

“To safeguard one’s health at the cost of too strict a diet is a tiresome illness indeed.”

 —François de La Rochefoucauld

I had been eating healthy for the past week, though. See, for example, a mobile snap of my lunch from last week whilst in New York City for my internship. One raspberry smoothie—with three perfect raspberries to garnish—and a small serving of baby arragula salad. It was hardly small, for that matter. It was rather generous, served and tossed beautifully in a sauce-pan like, ceramic bowl. Baby arragula, walnuts, corns, carrots, olive oil, pomegranate sauce. Absolutely fresh and most healthy, especially when served with a dose of heavily-highlighted and note-ridden training manual (see snippet of the green binder in the bottom-most left corner).

Taken from Güllüoğlu, an adorably tiny cafe on the corner of the street of my workplace. On 982 2nd Avenue and 52nd Street. 140 years of Turkish tradition—baklava and cafe—so their menu claims (I snatched one on my way out, and coincidentally left my credit card at the table). I’m an absolute sucker for any corner place with freshly made sweets lined up and vegetarian options. I regret not trying each flavor of baklava…

The next day, one of the girls next door bought espresso cream puffs for the entire office in celebration of another girls’ birthday. From Choux Factory on 48th and 1st Avenue, midtown. It was a bouffant of a thing, perfectly pouf-y and posing ever so seductively on its plate awaiting my lips. Too graphic? I enjoy being melodramatic. But after a rather filling lunch at Dos Chinos with N., we decided it was best we take our cream puffs to go in green shopping bags emblazoned with our company logo. No doggy baggy-ing in NYC, non. We would tote our desserts to shield it from a rainy New York City in between cab rides and errands.

On my train ride home I was so, so tempted to eat my espresso cream puff. I had planned on saving it for when I got home, to enjoy in the comfort of pajamas under silky covers, and a good blog or two with a cup of green tea to wash it all down. Alas, I could not resist temptation and so accordingly succumbed. Ohmygoodness. Ohmyword. Can I tell you? You have no choice but to hear (or read, technially), anyway. It was heavenly, even after suffering a rainy trek to Lord and Taylor, and later unsuccessfully hailing taxis in its green shopping bag. A little warm in that cozy way, perfectly puffy and delicate, biting into an oozing, cream center. Buttery, almost liquid-like, a handsome amount of cream equal parts espresso and lightly sweetened. I savored that thing. If I weren’t in public, I would have wolfed it down.

No. Inhaled it.

One cream puff—one melt-in-your-mouth cream puff—re-ignited my sweet tooth. Again. This penchant for bikinis and sweets. The irony of life in a nutshell.

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