Creamy and rich, smooth as silk, sensuous as it shimmers on the spoon and slides over the tongue. As delicate as an angel’s touch, as light as air, Panna Cotta warms his heart as sure as my hand placed on his cheek. His guilty pleasure, it was up to me to create for him the most exquisite dessert, a sure sign of what I was willing to give of myself. For each perfect bouquet of flowers he ever placed in my arms, for every jewel he slid onto one of my fingers, this gift was for him. Romance in a slender glass, the color of faded roses or pale pink champagne, the scent, the taste of sweet sugar-kissed violets, a jewel-dark blackberry coulis adding depth and richness, the full flavor of the fruit bringing out the best of the Panna Cotta, like a fur wrap draped over a delicate satin gown.

The neon-yellow puffs stuck together like a clump of cat litter in the bottom of the litterbox. They smelled vaguely of petroleum but tasted like a summer twenty years ago, when sticky fingers probed the corners of the cereal box, praying that the junk food gods would send me just a few more.

Their cloying sweetness sunk into my tongue and made me gag while little bits of fluff wedged themselves between my teeth. My entire body screamed, “What the hell are you doing? Stop this madness!” But it was too late. The addiction had begun.

Hours later I might wind up semi-passed out on the beach, clawing at my face in a sugar-induced rage while begging a frightened cabana boy for my eighth Mai Tai. I’d be frothing at the mouth. I’d be banging my head into the sand. I’d be parched and sunburnt and twitching for more Corn Pop Crack.

Until then, I had these God-forsaken headache-seeds to enjoy, biding my time until insulin resistance set in.

Pittsburgh’s Strip District implies something X-rated, but apart from the obscene number of folks clogging a 12-block “strip” of Penn Avenue, there’s a nothing but a wholesome love for the ‘Burgh and its attendant quirks on the street.

Red-faced men proudly hawk super-sports-fan Steelers and Penguins gear (“On Ice or Grass, We’ll Kick Your Ass”) to shoppers ripping open greasy deli containers of olives and dates, weighed down with pounds of Parmesan as they awkwardly navigate coolers past Wholey’s Fish Market, Stamooli Brothers, and Pennsylvania Macaroni—institutions that have supplied Pittsburgh’s immigrant population for the past century.

Sidewalk stalls cater to carb-lovers with freshly-griddled scallion pancakes, ‘roni-and-mozz “sangaweeches,” and tiers of pizzelle and cannoli, but the detail that fully crystallizes this hometown scene comes from the tinny but persistent tune floating above the clamor—a lone panhandler on the corner playing the city’s unofficial anthem, “Here We Go Steelers,” on his flute.

The cartoon corn pops on the box smiled garishly up at me, and the foil bag inside was so tightly sealed I felt it was protecting a great treasure I had to work to obtain. I poured the light as air kernels of cereal into my hand and began to smell hints of corn and honey that my tongue was begging to taste. As I bit into my first corn pop my teeth recoiled in horror at the honey coated piece of Styrofoam assaulting them. Certain they must be mistaken, I eat another and another, until the crunching in my mouth overpowers every sound in the room. I felt I’d been conned, rather than mining for treasure, my tongue is digging around my teeth trying to erase ever last trace of the sickening cereal.

Strangely, though I could see their meaty mounds throughout and delighted when a bite yielded the gentle kiss of earthiness mixed with the pillows of cheese, the mushroom flavor scratched softly at the rear window rather than announcing itself with a fanfare at the front door. Maybe it was the strong voice of the goat cheese, or the tingly warmth of the paprika oil on the tongue, but this was a mushroom risotto for those who haven’t decided to commit to a long term relationship with mushrooms.