Patisserie 46 was anticipated with delight. When Rustica left the neighborhood I felt betrayed and abandoned. I had come to depend on their scones to appease my longing for London. I know clotted cream will be more difficult to replace, but at least I had access to heavenly scones like the ones we ate in the basement cafeteria of the Tate Britain. Patisserie 46 held the promise of decadent pastries like the ones eaten at LaDuree on a drizzly evening ending a day of retail therapy at Harrods. It was the first full week of July that I noticed people sitting outside the south Mpls location, suggesting to passers by that it was open for business. I recruited my son to assist me with an initial assessment. The pastry case held a limited assortment of selections, but there were many breads from which to choose. I decided on a coconut cream creation with a traditional macaroon on the side. Sitting under the trees on the East side of the building was a welcome moment in my adjustment to the boot cast weighing down my broken left ankle. I swung my heavy metal and plastic contraption, secured with 5 wide bands of Velcro, up and onto an extra chair next to the rose colored impatiens. The metal running up each side of the cast hit the iron garden chair with a satisfying clanking not unlike a jail cell door slamming shut. Looking at my iron braced broken ankle propped awkwardly, I slowly leaned back to catch the sun filtered through the leaves on my face. Sipping iced mango green tea, sharing my maiden voyage to eat pastries in a new rival for my LaDuree loyalty, I listened to a man who loves me and relaxed. It is easier to let go of my resentment around Rustica's move when I have a choice like Patisserie 46. Perhaps that is the secret of letting go: noticing what you have now, in this breath.