I undressed the cupcake slowly, the way I imagine an Italian would. Savoring every glance and every touch, I peeled the wrapper away. I didn't rush it, for I know that matters of passion are best left to evolve naturally. The rich chocolate of the cake became more moist as it warmed to room temperature, and the swirled tower of the creamy peanut-buttery frosting became more and more luscious.
By the time I took the first taste, my mouth was watering from the sight of this classic American beauty. The cake was delicate and complemented by the frosting that hinted at peanut butter without overpowering it (or me). I invited a third flavor to the afternoon: a big-by-Italian-standards cappuccino. In a cafe owned by an American, I told myself that it was acceptable to drink my espresso with milk, despite what the locals say about reserving milky coffee for the morning. After all, this place advertises that it has breakFAST, implying the sad truth that we Americans are always in a rush.
My gorgeous cupcake, lovely cappuccino and I spent a beautiful afternoon on a comfy couch together. Even though we were in plain view, I didn’t feel self-conscious about taking my time to appreciate them. I know that at least while I’m in Italy, I might as well love openly and deeply.
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