Full Package

I bite into the candy roll, and it’s a carnival of deliciousness. My eyebrows wriggle, and I nod approvingly as I finish chewing. I adopt an over-the-top restaurant critic’s voice. “Just the perfect mix of marshmallow goodness that pairs ever so wonderfully with the tang of the Fruit Roll-Up. Add in the flavor sensation of the perennial favorite, Swedish Fish, and you have a masterpiece on your hands.”


Josie’s a baker, but not just any baker. She’s a world-class dessertier. I don’t know if that’s a word, but it fucking should be given how this woman can wield a mixer and a baking pan. There’s nothing sweet that she can’t make taste like a party in your mouth. Probably why her taking over her parents’ old shop, Sunshine Bakery, has been such a success.

Her eyes widen at my masterpiece compliment. “Really? You’re not just saying that, are you?”

I’m stone-faced as I answer her. “I never lie about treats. Case in point. Remember the time you made those chocolate chip cookies that contained the world’s worst food item?”

“You still can’t say the name of it, can you?”

I close my eyes, an involuntary shudder running down my spine. “Just trying to block out the memory of . . .” Taking a deep breath, I force out the next word. “Raisins.” When I open my eyes, I’m sure they’re still laced with horror as I recall what she did to those helpless cookies. “Seriously. How could you defile something as wonderful as a chocolate chip cookie with a . . . dried grape?”

She shrugs helplessly. “That’s how you discover what works and what doesn’t work in the kitchen. You have to try. I was trying something new. Cowboy cookies with chocolate chips, coconut and—”

I clasp my palm over her lips. “Don’t say it again.” I release my hold on her mouth, and she rolls her eyes then mouths raisins.

I cringe. “Anyway, these sushi rolls are the opposite. They’re perfect. But why’d you need to take a class? Why not just follow a recipe?”

Her answer is simple. “I like taking classes, and I want these desserts to be the best. Plus, the woman who runs that sweet shop has the best candies. Those aren’t regular Swedish Fish that you can buy in a grocery store. They’re hand-made from her family recipe. That’s why I wanted you to meet me as soon as class ended. To taste them fresh.”

“Are you going to serve them fresh?”

She nods excitedly and spreads her hands wide, the silver, heart-shaped ring on her index finger glinting in the evening sun. “Here’s my plan. I thought I’d start offering a new fun and quirky treat each day. Like candy sushi on Mondays at three, and then on Tuesdays I’d do coconut chocolate chip cookies, minus the food item that shall not be named.”

I mouth thank you.

“On Wednesday afternoons I’d offer a grapefruit macaron, for instance. And I can market the shop more on social media like the food trucks do. It’ll be like appointment treats daily at the Sunshine Bakery.”

“That’s brilliant.” I clear my throat, sigh deeply, and set a hand on her arm. “But I need to break this to you. No one likes grapefruit. Not even in a macaron.”

Her green eyes shine like she has a secret. “Ah, but you’ve never tried my grapefruit macaron. I’ll make that for you next. It’s delish. I promise,” she says, then reaches up to tighten her ponytail. Her dark brown hair is streaked with pink near the tips. Normally shades of bright colors in the locks do nothing for me, but on Josie, it just works. It suits her personality. She’s bright and outgoing. Friendly and happy. She’s exactly the type of person who can rock pink-streaked hair and selling cake, cookies, and seven-layer bars at a cheery bakery on the Upper West Side, plus sushi candy, too.

She has the whole look—the soft curves, the inviting smile, the warm eyes, the fun hair, and the upbeat attitude. Like it’s a surprise this woman became one of my closest friends after I met her about ten years ago. It’s impossible not to like Josie.

And I’m not even talking about her rack. See? I’m so well-behaved.

She gives me two more treats to try, and neither one floats my boat. I tell her that each time, and she simply nods and says thanks. Dipping her hand in the bag, she grabs what looks like a Twinkie sushi roll wrapped in taffy to represent the seaweed.

“Try this one,” she says, handing me a slice as a summer breeze rustles the branches of a nearby tree.

I arch an eyebrow in question. “Aren’t Twinkies bad for you?”

She winks at me. “Don’t you know? Everything that tastes good is bad for you. Besides, it’s not a Twinkie Twinkie,” she adds, pointing at the dessert sushi.

“What is it? Like a Twinkie’s bastard cousin? A Winkie Twinkie? A Kinky Twinkie?”

“It’s a Trinkie,” she says, laughing. “It’s homemade. I whipped it up and brought it to the class. I made my own version of Twinkies. So they’re not, y’know, disgusting. Here you go,” she tells me.

I bite into the treat, and my eyes go wide. “Holy shit. You have to sell that.”