In deference to my dodgy stomach I go through periods where I forego dairy and bread. I tell myself this is good for me and probably it is a little. But inevitably, like a bird returning to its nest, my cravings overtake me and I lay eyes on a croissant that seems to say, "what did I ever do to you?" and I succumb. My attraction to this tandem is too insistent and too ingrained. It's a craving decades in the making and probably inhabits my DNA stamped with generations of bread and milk and coffee - most likely with a cigarette chaser -  enjoyed across the Mediterranean, then nourished in Montreal cafes, where I spent countless hours with a steaming bowl of cafe au lait alongside a crumbling pastry. One can't deny one's nature.