The sound of sizzling goodness,
The faint smell of vanilla,
The touch of flakey softness,
The sight of the thin layer of cooked batter
with a big smear of Nutella,
And the taste of folded joyfulness.
Crêpes.
To a little girl who has tasted crêpes all her life,
This one was somehow different.
The bite made everything in Paris seem brighter,
Even though the sun was setting.
The streets were magically filled with laughter and wonder,
A different type of excitement.
It was as if a different dimension of glee was discovered,
One that was tucked away in the gap between time and space.
Even though she was walking and talking to her father,
Her mind was immersed with that crêpe.
How was the crêpier able to do this?
Even his way of making it seemed magical.
The next day, the girl decided to have a crêpe at a restaurant,
But it wasn't the same.
It. Just. Wasn't.
Then, she decided to make her own.
It was an epic fail.
Later, she made some with her parents
And it was perfect.
They taught her all of the secrets of making one,
Made her translate the French recipe to have her practice,
And gave her their unconditional love and support.
The crêpes were perfect,
But these were even more special than any she had ever tasted.
The secret dimension of glee was opened even wider,
And everything was as bright as the sun,
Yet it was so inviting and cozy,
As if its purpose was to be an enormous hug.
The girl knew how much time and effort her parents put in,
so that she could be happy.
Was the secret ingredient love?