Lying is a terrible sin, worse than murder,
worse than homosexuality, worse than blasphemy,
because lying deceives others like the serpent
deceived Eve, my mother said, giving me a stern
look after I lied about whether I had brushed my
teeth and said my prayers. Want some ice cream,
sweetie? she said. Before you go to bed? She
always had a sweet tooth, my mother. Sugar and
the Lord Jesus Christ, her two loves in life.
Her theology was questionable; she fully believed
along with the coming apocalypse and Judgment
Day and the new heaven and new earth there
would be desserts in the afterlife. Sweets, pies,
cakes, chocolate, candies, how could we truly be
happy without these, even with Jesus Christ? She
loved a millefeuille, a macaroon, a pot du crème.
A pain au chocolate would give her the most immense
pleasure. An éclair could make her stop for a moment,
her eyes closed and a smile on her lips. This is simply
heavenly, she’d say to me. Oh praise the Lord for this!
She should have married a French pastry maker.
Instead she was saving herself for Christ the Pastry
Chef in heaven, who was waiting for her wearing an
apron and toque blanche. Waiting to introduce her to
the perfect chocolate mousse, perhaps a crème brûlée
or a tiramisu, the classics elevated to perfection when
he touches the ingredients. I called him Sugar Christ. In
the garden of Eden she never would have been tempted by
an apple. A torte would have done it. Even a lollipop might
have been enough for her to forever condemn mankind
to original sin. She died crossing the street to a doughnut
store after church. She wanted a chocolate peanut butter
doughnut with a coffee, she had texted me. I leave fresh
pastries at her grave. I say my own prayer. Take care of
her. Take really good care of her, Sugar Christ.