The beginning of my sophomore year in college, I had a moment that was both mundane and packed with meaning. It was around 6 or 6:30 p.m. on a Tuesday; I’d gone to the grocery store to get food for the next few days. Making my way to the produce section, I was hit hard by the sweet, buttery smells floating from the bakery’s gleaming glass cases. I was routinely assaulted by their tempting scents, and almost as routinely, I’d yield. I’d grab a couple cookies or a bear claw for an afternoon snack or to have after dinner.
But that day was different. I wanted a piece of cake, and I wanted it right then. For my evening meal. Not following it. As it.