and what of the danish, whose branches grow in layers of honey and lard and passionate expressions of anger? what of its flaky crust, its need to inhabit the bottom shelf of the carbohydrate rack at the convenience store, its gummy texture?
what, then, makes it the perplexing epiphany of plain-spoken need, solid ground of the night? its brothers the muffin, the bear claw, cousins brownie and croissant, all know their place in the hierarchy of desire, know where they place their chains of sugar and doubt. they huddle in cacophonous sneers, plot and plan to usurp the luxurious throne of assent.
a simple vice, this teleological growth towards the sun, the slime, their freedom in the bowels of a factory worker on lunch break; the fulfillment of their liquid presence in culture, from the boardroom to the break room/mexican day laborers passing in favor of their indigenous sweet breads/secretaries with massive thighs publicly slicing dainty portions with a plastic knife, only to cram their gullets with guilty crumbs an hour hence.
there are those who would “improve” the danish, find new fillings, scale it up to costco proportion, replace those stunning ingredients with lite and soy and margarine. some do not respect the joys of canned tuna and peaches, dark cheap cigarettes and late night infomercials, bowling drunk in a las vegas timezone. but the world knows better; i know better.