sisyphusshrugged | of loukoumades and the woman I sing

There's a greek orthodox church in our neighborhood, and a few times a year they have a fair. One of the booths, with a stainless-steel funnelly thing full of yeast dough suspended over a big rectangular vat of bubbling oil the size of a small bathtub, is devoted to loukoumades.

Imagine a zeppelin-shaped zeppole. Now imagine a bubbling hot zeppelin-shaped zeppole right out of the oil tossed in honey syrup and sprinkled with cinnamon. Now imagine that you are snatching the little styrofoam clamshell of zeppole off the table before the nice young lady can take the syrup jug and pour another half cup of honey syrup on top. Now imagine she asks you if you're sure, because everyone wants the extra syrup, despite the fact that without the extra syrup there is enough sugar in a loukoumades to cause the uninitiate to levitate (it is my personal theory that classical loukoumades consumption is responsible for the symmetrical columns on the moon).

By the time you assuage her concern by accepting a handful of toothpicks, the honey syrup will have cooled to a thin, crunchy honey shell.

Poetry, dammit.