You can't have your cake and eat it too. Let them eat croissants.

But how will I eat cake if my head is over there, and my hands are over here?

This morning's pastry poses challenges. To assemble the tiny mosaic disks of chocolate flake and candied ginger, Avis must execute a number of discrete, ritualistic steps: scraping the chocolate with a fine grater, rolling the dough cylinder in large-grain sanding sugar, and assembling the ingredients atop each hand-cut disk of dough in a pointillist collage. Her husband wavers near the counter, watching. "They're like something Marie Antoinette would wear around her neck. When she still had one."
"I thought she was more interested in cake," Avis says, she tilts her narrow shoulders, veers around him to stack dishes in the sink.

They're good but not all as good as each other.

Nostalgia was never what it used to be.

Allow me to contradict my clarifications and in no time we'll get to the bottom of nothing.