Where does the sun spend the night? Nobody knows.
But you just have to look at it.
He has danced so much that the fabric of his slippers is threadbare.
He's had so much fun that his stomach is sticking out, like that of a mother-to-be.
He laughed so much that his mischievous eyes looked like fireworks.
Wrinkles, would you say? Overweight? Scars? Whatever.
Because the sun will always be the sun. His reign is eternal. Eternally new. It appears, and everything becomes clear. The nightmares dissipate, the monsters run away, the ghosts disappear.
He barely stretches, and puts on a gold dress so wrinkled that you would say, if you dared, that he looks like some coquette in a silk negligee. Well, the sun doesn't care. Whether we take him for a casserole, what does it matter! Since it is safe. Sure, so perfectly. Sure of his strength.
Yes, it doesn't matter that the king is not in armor. And it doesn't matter if it's round. Round like the stunned eyes of lovers. Round like happy days, when you want to be careful. Round like when you've had a little too much to drink, and you start dreaming of a life as light as a balloon.
______________________________
That day, on Place Lapérouse, the Japanese cherry trees are in bloom. Their petals, a delicate pink, fly in the breeze, like the confetti of an extremely sweet party. A pink so delicate that it seems as if it is trying to protect us from the shock that the too sudden, too indecent, too unreal blossoming of spring would cause us.
In the window, ideally placed along the sidewalk, the pastries shine. Variety of shapes and colors, careful decorations, they are very attractive. So, we enter. The young people who welcome us have genuine smiles and sparkling eyes. At our request, they set up a few tables on the terrace. The March sky is reflected in the windows, and suddenly we are in the middle of a flock of white sheep. Head in the clouds.
It wasn't very hot that day, but the sun was there. On my skin, and on my plate. I am watching him. He danced so much. And yet, he never gets tired of giving. I see him. It brings me vanilla flowers, with notes of milk and cream. All roundness and lightness. Then comes the taste of caramel, more robust, and the marked, slightly harsh, unexpected flavor of walnut, combined with hazelnut. The pieces of roasted apricots melt in your mouth like little pieces of summer, while those of apples, more discreet, have a scent of autumn.
Full of complexity, this cake is captivating. Very tasty, it asserts the flavors that compose it, in a beautiful balance. It surprises as much as it comforts and inspires dreams. Real sunshine.
It is rumored, however, that this king of cakes never wanted to govern. That the ceremonies bore him, that the bright lights hurt his eyes (the worst), that the crowns fall from his hands. That he prefers to sneak away at night and dance until the floor breaks.
And then, too, dream. Eyes wide open. Until the fortified walls fell. Whatever they are.
That day, at Place Lapérouse, when I met him, he had lacked sleep, and his hair was a mess. We both had our heads in the clouds. Whatever. He smiled, and everything sparkled.
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Sarah
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25 mars 2024
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