Photo courtesy of the author.
Sunday, December 7, 2025
My husband says sugar is in everything, pointing to the bread on our counter, the jar of peanut butter, the smear of spicy mayo on the side of the tuna rice bowl I brought. He presents these facts as if they were revelations. I decided my sugar fasting rules would be looser and therefore possible to stick to. So, no dessert. No honey, no maple syrup. Dates will be fraudulent. Nothing can be described as designed solely for fun.
I consume more than 1,500 grams of sugar a week because of my job as a baker. I spooned out the custard and ate the remains; I licked my finger as it became sticky. I usually order dessert before dinner, but lately I’ve been losing my sweet tooth, a gradual erosion: I brought an apple galette to a housewarming party and couldn’t resist one bite. At work, I don’t bother tasting as much as I should. I forgot to add salt, and a cook noticed me.
I wonder if a week without sugar will bring back my cravings. Maybe if I stopped my acceptance, I would like my job again. Like stopping using one form of nicotine to replace it with another form.
Monday, December 8
Opened a restaurant alone at 6 MORNINGstaggered in my puffy coat down to the basement. The brioche buns are laid out to prove, the toffee glaze is put into a bowl. A bottle of lemon curd was taken from the lowboy. Usually, I squeeze it onto the back of my hand, sticking my tongue in it to make sure it hasn’t changed overnight. I even sniffed it, but the curd didn’t smell that bad once it was gone, so I wasn’t confident. I swished it around in my mouth and then spat it into the trash. I remember someone telling me about a sommelier who was sober. It felt less than dignified, a lump in the back of my throat. The same problem arises with the chai-orange whip that accompanies the hand pies. I took a different way: Nora came, and she became my mouth so it was right as rain for the service. Crullers fry too evenly. I put it on a plate to forage with the family instead of eating it.
I started with the cinnamon roll filling and pulled out Cool Mint Zyn, 6 mg. 8:15 MORNING Sharp and sweet. Maybe that would hinder my reflex to lick the dribble. Many people think that bakers just passively follow recipes, but our tastes are the same as those of chefs. Jesús took the remaining raspberry juice from my granita and added oat milk and honey; he held out the Vitamix. I told him I didn’t eat sugar, and he nodded at me as if I’d told him I was sick.
Around noon, Ella and Ham arrived for a meeting. I was expected to serve them dessert, and I did. I showed off all my offerings, and they seemed surprised when I didn’t bother bringing a plate for myself. I tell them I don’t eat sugar and find that going on a weird diet is an efficient way to avoid substantive conversation. Giving up food groups is normal and harmless, and limiting myself gives the illusion of disclosure without real vulnerability: I’m exhausted and don’t have the energy to put on this extra show. Ella told me she was considering a meat diet for a week rather than questioning my lackadaisical attitude. I prepared an omelet with grilled tomatoes and toast at the end of my shift. Dessert didn’t cross my mind all day until my husband wanted to watch TV while eating ice cream.
Tuesday, December 9
I wondered if maybe sugar was responsible for my moodiness. I wake up in high spirits, and this I think is very important! It would be fun to pin it all on one enemy. Sugar causes inflammation; inflammation is the source of all disease, and so on. Francesca, my friend and an ER doctor, always says that mental clarity comes from detoxification. Without products designed for pleasure, I was supposed to rediscover dopamine in ordinary things: An apple would taste very sweet. My skin will become brighter, firmer; my mind is unimpeded. When I saw Dr. Edwards this year, he first asked about my nicotine consumption (cigarettes → vape → Zyn), then about my eating habits. I told him I was committed to a balanced diet, which was a lie. Most of what I ate was free food from homework dinners and handfuls of streusel at work.
Oatmeal for breakfast, usually drowned in maple syrup or light brown sugar because after starting the day by scrolling through Instagram, I’m hungry for dopamine. The oatmeal is porridge without it, the peanut butter (no added sugar) sticks to my mouth. The computer worked because the restaurant was closed. When I’m not baking but everyone is on their way to the office, I feel guilty and out of sync with the world. I refresh my email constantly. A message confirmed my presence at a famous baker’s cake swap at a West Village ice cream shop. What cake will I make? asked the PR representative. Another was a last-minute invitation to sample the weekend’s treats, “rooted in the long-standing holiday custom of gathering family and friends around a generous table of thirteen desserts. We hope you’ll join us!” I didn’t answer.
Wednesday, December 10
Zyn is on his way to work. The bodega was out of Cool Mint, and I remember someone saying the coffee version tasted like Werther’s. It is true.
I think of Deb, who works as a book editor and spends her days reading drafts in the most difficult-to-read form. His job is to make the script into something we consume. By the time it was sold, he had moved on. He barely had time left to read for pleasure. I also never actually eat my desserts in their finished form, just the components. I remember how I used to sit in front of the oven window watching the butter and flour swell, brown and crack. How is the rough puff? Anna once told me that when she watches a film, she can only see the choices, the camera, the angles, the colors. When I eat dessert at a restaurant, all I can feel is what’s wrong.
I went to my friend Rosa’s for dinner. Usually I pride myself on having no boundaries, on being easy. This time when he asked me if I was avoiding something, I felt embarrassed. I said refined sugar, not the whole story but close enough. I was the one who was supposed to bring dessert. I feel like I’m not a guest without it. I made up for it with two bottles of wine. Sausage first, plump and serve with cabbage. Turns out there was dessert, because he’s a chef and loves dessert: honey baked apples with almonds and cheese. I ate two bites because I didn’t want to be rude, even though I had promised to give up the honey. I felt so guilty about cheating earlier in the week that I could barely feel it. His girlfriend joined us for drinks and opened a can of Zyn, which made me feel less embarrassed about stuffing my own little pillow of nicotine into my own.
Thursday, December 11
The cookie exchange was held at an ice cream shop in the Village. A sign on the wall reads: “We highly recommend tasting them all.” All day I was supposed to be baking, but I couldn’t do it. I was tired, sticky, and covered in flour gunk. I didn’t want to make something that was ostensibly for fun after a full day of baking for work. I arrived empty handed. The spread is spectacular, mango and tonka bean Linzer cookies, shortbread dotted with sesame seeds, graham crackers dotted with icing. I saw everyone I’d ever met in the food world, clutching their cans to their chests. None of them know I don’t eat sugar. That’s part of the problem I’m having. There were no moral hearings, no witnesses.
My father was on Ozempic but managed to eat it. He ate the entire buffet but told everyone he knew it was working—he lost 0.6 pounds. I recognized myself in him. Perhaps deprivation is only interesting insofar as it prepares for release. I don’t know what to do with myself. I wonder if everyone around me can feel the anxiety rising from me. I bagged the rainbow cake when it came out because it’s like five cakes in one: cake, cake, chocolate, jam, marzipan. I put it in my mouth before I could convince myself otherwise, reasoning that I had already failed once, so why not? The cake didn’t have much flavor, but the apricot layer was bright and tart, and the chocolate melted deliciously on my tongue. In short, I was enveloped in sweetness. I imagine my eyes are cartoonish, popping out of my skull with glee.
Friday, December 12
There were whiteheads on my upper lip, which I blamed on my carelessness. Later, 2nd Ave Deli with my grandmother. Our ritual is Dr. Brown’s Black Cherry and post-pastrami chocolate rugelach. He plans his week around this. He brought his glucose monitor. When I told him I didn’t eat sweets, he asked if we should measure my blood sugar. I drop a drop of red blood into the machine before we eat. Eighty-three, the monitor beeps. Thirteen points lower than my baseline. “Amazing,” he said.
Saturday, December 13
Woke up early again, but I slept well. Open at the restaurant, then head straight to Red Hook for the holiday market where zine cake have a table. I made baked oat pecan scones as a marketing ploy but didn’t taste them. People immediately started queuing. “I smelled it across the room,” they said. A woman bites and closes her eyes. I saw his mouth working. I saw crumbs collecting in the folds of her scarf. Someone asked if I had the gluten free version. Another came back to the table and told me it was the best scone he had ever eaten. I say “independent food magazines” over and over again. By mid-afternoon, I realized I was starving. I was alone at the table, and the card reader kept disconnecting from the Wi-Fi. There were still a few scones left, shiny brown. Usually I’m not tempted—I rarely want to eat the food I make—but I’m hungry, and I haven’t followed my own rules. I took small bites from the bottom first, avoiding the lacquered maple glaze. It looked like a mouse was gnawing on it. The scones were tastier than I remembered. My stomach sounded meowing. A few moments later, I took a piece of the doming-shaped top and turned it over like sushi so that the sugar hit my tongue first, then dissolved quickly.
Nothing really happened this week. I don’t feel like my mind is clear. I couldn’t have felt more foggy. I don’t feel like I’ve just been reunited with sugar or freed from its cravings. I finished the rest of the scone in a few bites.
Tanya Bush is a writer and baker. Her narrative cookbook, Will This Make You Happycoming from the Chronicle next month.
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