Stopping to Eat the Roses


When working with Marzipan in the bakeshop, I feel like I’m about eight years old. The class is handed sugary wads of dough and told to make pretty shapes, like flowers, baskets, leaves, and the whole experience echoes memories of something like Summer camp, or elementary school art. We put on aprons, sit in our assigned seats, lean over our “clay,” and, I imagine, look something like small children, crinkling their foreheads to focusing very hard on coloring in the lines. At one point, I even found my tongue protruding between my lips in concentration.


Marzipan is also way cooler than Play-Doh or modeling clay because it’s edible. If I think about my younger self and how excited my younger self would be at the revelation of an edible Play-Doh-like substance, a tiny wave of thrill passes through my entire body. So last class, I might have eaten as much Marzipan as I molded. Just maybe.


There’s something therapeutic about making the roses. I like the idea of taking part of the day to make pretty things and I like I’m with an entire group of people who are taking time to make pretty things with me. Also, the Chef is adamant that we “put some life into them,” by fluting-out the pedals and studying the way a rose moves. So, there is both playfulness and romance in the making of them.


In other words…Grown-Up Play-Doh.




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