Oh, pain au raisins, with your crisp, buttery outer rings and dense, chewy middle. You are the perfect marriage of croissant and fruit. (Raisins are fruit in my world). You keep me sane when I have to call the french cable company for the 10th time in a week to say that the internet is still not working. Your eminent goodness reminds me that all is well in the world, even when that french cable company tells me that, oh yes, the internet was fixed yesterday. Even though it wasn’t.
Pain au raisins, you alone prevent me from hurling my cell phone through the window when the french cable company asks me for the 10th time, “Did you unplug the modem?” even though we all know it’s not my modem, it’s some mysteriously unfixable problem outside my building.
And when I want to hunt down the french cable/internet company and impose some hammer-like American justice, I think of the pain au raisins in my belly, and how such anger would surely disrupt its blissful digestion.
Sweet pastry of the gods, you are my guiding light in times of distress. And for this, pain au raisins, I salute you.