Michelle Robertson

The scent permeates the household in a fit of yeasty seduction. That sweet, heavy flavor conjures memories of mornings in the kitchen, picnics with gingham tablecloths and evenings flowing with wine and cheese. Bread is the simplest form of sustenance, enjoyed by the poor man and the king alike.

Following a routine screening last summer, my dad learned that he had cancer. In the months that followed, amid doctors’ appointments and surgery and hushed phone calls and microwavable dinners, I diligently avoided partying — that is, pity partying.

Je ne comprends pas!” I say, begging for mercy. “I don’t understand!” My high school French education proved useless while I was surrounded by fast-talking, slang-slinging French teenagers, and shamefully I waved the white flag of total incomprehension.

The pursuit of pleasure is as noble an endeavor as any other. Humans need food, water and shelter to survive; but they need pleasure — and a little bit of sin — in order to really live. The argument comes down to living in the moment versus living for the future, balancing the present with what lies ahead.