I can remember well the feeling of my chin splitting open on the hardwood floor. Or maybe it’s the sound I’m remembering, the panic washing over my brother’s face, a real oh shit moment. There was blood, although I’m not sure how much, our half-eaten chocolate chip banana bread on the kitchen table. I’m not sure what compelled us to get up mid-dessert to play. I can’t fully denounce my part, but it likely wasn’t my call, because where banana bread is, I have always been there to finish it. My brother had been sitting on my back while I moved around the floor on all fours, neighing or improvising some other animal noise.

Giddy up!, my brother ordered before knocking my head into the ground with a force of which only an unmedicated, hyperactive six-year-old is truly capable. I’m sure my mom was furious. In my memory she is swearing, pulling out an ice pack from the freezer to wrap in a paper towel. I’m not sure where my father was, but not home, likely at a business dinner.

I don’t remember the drive to the hospital but I do remember the process of being stitched up, specifically how they strapped me to the bed with Velcro, something that didn’t make much sense to me at the time. I have always been compliant in a medical sense, even at the age of four, so strapping me down during the stitches seemed excessive. I can’t recall the particulars, the number of stitches required to quilt together my tiny chin. What I can recall is the way in which they bandaged me up, how I feared being unable to suck my thumb, something I still did at the time and would do for a significant amount of time after.

I still have the small scar on the bottom side of my chin, a tiny mark no bigger than a fingernail. I remember the partially-melted Twix my brother handed me as an apology, which I accepted without the need for convincing or negotiation. I have always been willing to sacrifice my pride for dessert. This has not changed.

Halloween has always been my favorite holiday. My memories of it as a kid mostly involve my deep commitment to counting my candy at the night’s end. Organized by quantity and kind, I would lay out the pieces in an orderly fashion so I could best admire my findings. My memories of the holiday don’t involve my eating the candy so much as they do my admiration of it, although I certainly ate it, too. 

 My childhood was filled with what felt like endless trips to the dentist, the dentist in question being my aunt. Because she is a thorough practitioner of dentistry, I spent countless afternoons after school in her chair getting cavities filled, either preemptively, preventatively, or post-development. It felt like my teeth were being prepared for war, adequately armored, ready to fight any battle against sweets that they might wreak on my oral health. I didn’t eat a particularly extreme amount of sugar. My mom didn’t allow us to drink pop, except for on the occasion holiday. My frequent trips to the dentist may have been, in some way, a preparation for the sweet tooth I would come to have later in life. My aunt likely knew something I didn’t yet; our entire family has a way of turning to ice cream or a piece of cake to find solace when it can not be found elsewhere.

At my sixteenth-year physical, my doctor made an audible note of my weight gain. I could afford to lose ten or so pounds, or at least that’s what she told me and my mom. In just a matter of years, doctor’s appointments had gone from stickers and accomplishments of growth to disappointment with too much of it. All visits to the doctor with my mom up until this point were followed by a trip to the combination Dunkin’ Donuts–Baskin Robbins. This was no exception. Unphased by the words of my doctor, my mom insisted we stick to our routine. A scoop of mint chocolate chip in a cake cone did just what it needed to resuscitate my spirits. 

At my grandma’s shiva, the kitchen counters were lined with an endless array of treats from the local Jewish deli. For three days I sat at the dining room table where we’d had Thanksgiving dinner year after year, funneling pieces of Seven-Layer Cake into my mouth as though it were a contest. The cake is a thing of perfection, only to be found in the Detroit region. A thin layer of chocolate surrounds seven perfect layers of spongy vanilla cake, with a light filling of chocolate mousse separating each section. I often find myself dreaming of it. The three days of the shiva were filled with trays of Ashkenazi treats that could only be dreamt up by the once longing stomachs of diaspora. My grandma loved sweets. Once, she lost a tooth to a butterscotch See’s sucker not meant for biting into. In her last days before hospice care, she ate only chocolate pudding and those tiny cups of sugar-soaked mandarin oranges. It felt only right to gorge myself in her honor, so gorge I did.

When I was 19, I dated my personal trainer. While I’d previously gone out to eat without much thought behind my choices, that started to change after a few months into the relationship. He knew more about calories than I wanted to know, and never hesitated to share that knowledge with me. I started fearing bread, peanut butter, anything without a significantly high ratio of protein to carbohydrates, and nearly trembled in the presence of a single M&M. This continued out until our relationship fizzled out and then for some time after. I took months to relearn how to enjoy again, without guilt.

When my boyfriend in college and I reached one year of dating, we decided to celebrate with dinner and gifts. That day, I woke up to a heart-shaped box being thrust in my face. Open it, he said, a proud smile on his face. A box of chocolates first thing in the morning was a dream come true for me. He knows me so well, I thought. I opened the box and grabbed one of the pieces and brought it towards my mouth. Wait, he said, stopping my hand’s path. It’s not chocolate. It’s soap. The man had gotten me soap, in the shape of chocolates, scented like chocolates. He had presented me with the box, proudly, as though it were an actual box of chocolates. Soaps? You got me chocolate soaps? I tried to hide my disappointment but it was too late. I had been tricked, deprived of something edible and delicious. The relationship did not last, although for other reasons. 

My college graduation fell on the same day as my 22nd birthday. To celebrate, a party was held at my house. My boyfriend at the time showed up hours late. Before his arrival, his friends that I’d invited had all come and gone. More than two hours into the party, my mom brought out my birthday cake. No, no, we can’t do that yet. I frantically waved her away, before ordering her to put the cake back in the fridge. This wasn’t how I pictured it. I wanted to blow out candles with him by my side, but he was nowhere to be found. When he finally did show up, most guests had already left, the cake forgotten about entirely. He came late, left quickly, and I sulked on the couch in my white floral party dress. I rediscovered the cake later that night, after going out with friends and arriving home alone, and ate it with my hands in the dark of my kitchen, guided by the glow of the refrigerator light. 

One summer in college, I worked at a cake shop. The storefront was in Hollywood, a place for kids, adults, or anyone really to come and decorate a cake or six cupcakes. It was, to this day, the most taxing job I’ve ever had, more exhausting and emotionally demanding than one would expect a job at a cake shop to be, far worse than a sales associate position I’d later have at my local adult store. During my eight hour shifts, I covered cakes, cleaned up waterfalls of sprinkles and frosting, and kneaded fondant until my wrists ached. At the end of each shift, I’d shake out edible glitter from my apron. I worked for minimum wage and tips. When we worked parties, I watched the 15% service fee go directly into the owners’ pockets. That summer was cloying, sickeningly sweet in all of the wrong ways. Still, I never refused a piece of leftover cake or a spoonful of frosting. 

When my aunt–my mom’s sister–takes a bite of a dessert after much convincing, she always says the same thing: It’s like I’ve died and gone to heaven. When I think about dying and what I’d miss the most besides the people I love, it’s food. What is more human than taste, than a tongue that can be completely enveloped by flavor and texture and temperature? I come from a long line of people who knew deeply that one of the best parts of being alive is the food we eat to keep us alive. My uncle, whom I knew for less than a third of my life, was remembered most for his kind sensitivity and his Whisky Bread Pudding. My grandpa, when I knew him, had no teeth and a deep love for both his family and frozen yogurt. Despite his prioritization of his health, he too couldn’t resist some temptations.

My husband always says yes to dessert. Any chocolate in our house is bound to end up in his mouth. Once, I went to bake cookies and discovered that he had eaten my baking chips. Many of our best moments have been sprinkled with sugar. He proposed to me over room service breakfast. The night before our wedding, we stayed up late and shared a caramel apple. For my birthday one year, he got me a cake made to look like a Barbie’s gown, a real doll standing in the center of it. Last year, he got me a cake meant to feed ten. I was afraid the small would be…too small. When we argue, a Hershey kiss becomes a peace offering. Together, we are satiated, stuffed, overfilled with sweetness. 

I have a sweet tooth, or perhaps sweet teeth, all 32 of them (minus the three wisdom teeth I had removed) craving a hint of sugar, a treat after a meal or at the end of the day. My sweet tooth is a family heirloom, a relic given to me from both sides of my genetic makeup. Where there has been loss, pain, or grief, my family has always found sweetness almost as if to say, in spite of everything, look how lucky we are to be alive, to be here, to be able to taste what life has to offer us.