I love and fear the tarte. And I covet the skills that are regularly on display at the bakery down the street: fat slices of cauliflower gratin or glossy tartes aux fruits.

Here’s their cookbook. Every time I’m there, I stalk the store copy and add my buttery fingerprints to its pages like tracks in the snow. It is inevitable that when one day, when it’s sunny outside and I’m in a terrific mood and the door jangles when I walk in for a cup of au lait, I’ll make the impulse buy (does it still count as impulse if I’ve been mulling it over for months?)

But I think what’s really going on is it that I’m afraid once I own the book, I won’t have any excuse for making a lackluster baked good.

Ever.

Again.