Bitter sweet

We are visiting family in Ohio where I spent my summers as a child.  On the way back from my Aunt's house, I realized we were close to an Italian bakery that my Grandmother used to take me to.  I entered the bakery name in our GPS and sure enough, it was still around and only 15 minutes away.  I decided to make a little detour and take the kids for a treat.

We pulled up to the store and I told the kids they could each pick something from the case.  

"Mommy's grandma used to take her here."  I told them in a sing song voice as we entered the store. 

They weren't impressed, and frankly, neither was I.  The sign outside was faded and peeling and the store didn't seem to have that sweet butter mixed with fresh cheesy pizza smell that I remembered so distinctly.  There were plenty of Italian goodies on display, but Girlie picked out a chocolate chip with candies.  I scanned the rows and found what I was looking for.  Cream horns.  Flaky pastries filled with sugary cream filling.  I ordered two, plus a couple of biscotti, two canoli, a few nut rolls, and a plain sugar cookie for Little Guy.

The kids wanted to eat immediately so we sat down at one of the tables near the front of the store.  I took a bite of the cream horn and it was, as you might have already guessed, disappointing.  Too sweet.  Too small.  Just not the same.

After just a few bites, I took the rest of the goodies to my friend's house.  She poured me an IPA beer and I took a sip while I tried to explain what it felt like to go back.  The beer was ice cold and bitter, the first swig almost hard to swallow.  

But it least it was what I was expecting.