Memories

When I worked with Alsatians, they were serious about two things: *le football* and *pate sablee*. My boss made the most delectable Linzer tarts with jam his mother made. Maybe I’ll do a recipe someday, but for now I leave you with this:

If I were a linzer tart, I’d want to be a good one,
glistening, crystallized, catching the early morning light in a thousand brilliant directions, my sides gently oozing with moist, moist jam;
so sweet, but not overly so.

If I were a linzer tart, I’d want to be a good one because I’ve seen the bad ones,
mushy, dejected, sitting under a plexiglass safe at the diner; breakfasttime refugees, noble and sad all at once, with powdered sugar retreating into sinkholes of shortening and water.

If I were a linzer tart I’d have my own tray,
maybe with a doily, maybe not, but I’d have my dignity.

I wouldn’t be heaped halfway underneath the bear claws.