Dream Laughing

Sometimes I wake up laughing. For the rest of the day I’m bright yellow sunshine. Not the crystal, white sunlight of cold winter days that make me feel brittle, fragile and inconsequential. Inside I’m the child somersaulting down a grassy hill – freed from my Sunday dress and good shoes, into my play clothes and bare feet, laughing and whooping all the way down. I’m young, bold, and strong. I can do anything. I’m a good girl, bad girl, who-cares-about-anything-because-I’m-having-fun girl. Feeling that girl in me is like eating a Charlotte Rouse. For those not in the know, a Charlotte Rouse is an Italian pastry inserted in a three-inch cardboard tubing, the same width of a paper towel tube. Inside is a one-inch disc of pound cake, topped with about five inches of whipped cream custard. You push up a circular cardboard from the bottom with your finger as you slowly lick off the cream until you reach the buttery cake. You nibble on that until the last crumb. How I enjoyed being a little girl for those gastronomic moments. Out shopping the other day, I spotted an Italian bakery . . . and there they were lined up in the window, beckoning to me. Never lose an opportunity to bring out that little girl inside, I was thinking. I bought one – just one – and stole away with it to the privacy of my parked car to explore shameless youth-reviving pleasure. It was just as good as I remembered – every succulent lick. I don’t think it was fifteen minutes later that I went into such a sugar shock. The restorative nap that I surrendered to was definitely in order. Reality check – that gluttonous little girl in me had aged out. Waking up laughing is preferred.