Exactly one year ago, I started writing for PHOENIX Magazine.
Each month I have the privilege to describe a dessert from a local restaurant in a column called “Sweet Spot.”
(Yeah, tough job, but somebody’s gotta do it.)
I also write a “local product” column and restaurant reviews for the magazine, which I love writing, but the dessert column sends me into an ethereal, nectared orbit.
I’ve written about insanely delicious cakes (white chocolate sticky cake from Mosaic) and rustic tarts (apple pecan from Coup des Tartes), light-as-air macarons that could shame the French (Essence Bakery) and desserts that defy description (raspberry nougat box with pop rocks from Roka Akor).
Just wait until you see what’s coming up.
The reason this job makes me pinch myself is because I didn’t grow up eating dessert after every meal, although I think I would have been perfectly suited to do so.
Why? “All my tooths are sweet,” to quote tweeter @chrislee, quoting his four year-old daughter.
Let’s just say I’m making up for lost time.
No longer do I feel guilty about ordering dessert after a meal, even knowing that I probably don’t need a dessert. Seriously, who needs dessert?
Pastry chefs weren’t born out of necessity. They were born out of want. Frankly, I want to meet every pastry chef in the world, and taste their best creation.
I’m always searching for the next “to live for” dessert because, the way I see it, a girl’s best friend isn’t a diamond.
It’s sugar on a plate … and a fork. Maybe two.