Simon of the Dessert

“What are you doing up there?,” asked a schoolboy, no more than 6 years old.

“I’m waiting. I’m praying and I’m waiting,” answered Simon. 

“What are you praying and waiting for?”

“What we all pray and wait for: a seat.”

The boy was confused, he scurried off out of sight. For sixteen years, Simon had stood atop a 30 foot cannoli. You’d think it would be difficult, but ricotta hardens over time, creating a platform from which to survey the world. So there he was, Simon, patiently perched on a gigantic Italian pastry. He made it for a festival of some local Saint, but upon seeing it from the crowd, Simon knew he was looking at, and most importantly, smelling his destiny. He wouldn’t let any of the starving throngs take a bite. It was difficult in the first few weeks of his mission. He would throw pebbles at wild dogs picking at the corners. Birds were a particularly frustrating problem in the beginning. But as the dessert grew stale, beastly interest in it wavered. 

The townspeople always tried to get him to change cannolis. Some even suggested he try a different dessert. Some said it should be French. A cavalcade of pastry chefs would visit offering him a fresh croissant for his quest. He waved them off. One baker nominated him for a James Beard Award. Intrigued, Simon comes down and asks to hear more. How is this possible? The baker is coy, but says that judges would still have to eat his creation. Sixteen years after the fact that wouldn’t be a good idea. Simon climbed back onto the cannoli and told the crowd to disperse. Everyone should go home. By then, it was getting pretty late. 

The same baker came back the next day, saying he was a personal friend of Dominique Ansel, of cronut fame. The baker offered Simon his place in line, a highly desirable position, at Ansel’s bakery where he was currently promoting the “Cannot,” a half cannoli, half garlic knot; a divine melange of the sweet and savory. Simon nearly lost his balance at the thought, but somehow maintained his composure. 

The baker came back on the third day offering him a taste of Ansel’s pastry. He handed him a 30 foot metal spoon. As the skies opened up, the rain came down. Simon couldn’t resist the garlicky smell, something that evoked memories of his childhood, one spent standing much too close to the open flame of a rustic pizza oven. The second he grabbed the oily spoon, Simon felt a shock run through his entire body. 

He'd been struck by lightning. Honestly, it was shocking it hadn’t happened sooner. There were plenty of close calls, usually involving his affinity for ostentatious bling. He was fried, along with his edible pillar, and barbecued cannolis were born.