Pale white mooncakes sold in tins in mid-autumn called to me from the Chinatown window. A chewy tender crust with a filling of sweetened bean paste introduced my tongue to a pastry far less sweet than brownies or almond cookies, and I happily greeted their annual appearance.

Usually I bought one or two mooncakes from their bakery counter until the year the tin in the window featured a young warrior on a horse, slaying all Moon’s enemies. I had to have the box.

That night I opened the box, vowing to eat just one pastry per day, admiring the artwork and then the moon itself outside my window, while devouring my own honeyed harvest moon. Full moon’s pearly skin contrasted simply with the dark sky. My mooncakes, plain and white, contrasted with the tin’s golds and greens and reds like a shimmering pearl set round with colored gems.

I planned to buy another box for my father to enjoy, since he, like me, enjoyed the smooth, tasty cookie. But when I returned to the store the next day, the tins were all sold. So I saved two of the mooncakes from my box, carefully preserving them for the next trip home. My father and I ate them as dessert in my hometown on a warmish autumn night. We ate them on the back porch where, from the crisp dark sky, the moon could watch as we nibbled our moon-mimicking cakes.

After they were all devoured, the empty tin found a place of honor on my bookshelf, the picture facing out like the piece of art it is. I still buy the occasional mooncake, when I can find them, but my heart and tastebuds still celebrate the warrior on the box who, even now, half a century later, greets me daily, renewing his promise of defense every morning as he and his horse take their protective stance from the kitchen shelf above my Keurig. Although the tin once reminded me only of the cookie’s delicate flavors, now when I look at it, I see my father in the warrior, protecting me even from beyond, and smile at the memory of the sweet time we enjoyed eating the cookies, and of all treasured moments with my dear Dad.

Photo of vintage cookie tin is copyrighted © 2024 by Joan Leotta.
All rights reserved. Image appears here with her permission.

Joan Leotta

plays with words on page and stage. She performs tales featuring food, family, nature, and strong women. Internationally published as an essayist, poet, short-story writer, and novelist, she is the author of ten published books, including two poetry chapbooks: Feathers on Stone (2022) and Languid Lusciousness with Lemon (2017). In addition, her writings have appeared or are forthcoming in Brass Bell, Gargoyle Magazine, Impspired, MacQueen’s Quinterly, MysteryTribune, Ovunque Siamo, Pinesong, Poetry in Plain Sight, Silver Birch Press, The Ekphrastic Review, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Yellow Mama, and others.

Her work was nominated for the Pushcart in 2021 and 2022, and for Best of the Net in 2022. Her microfiction “Magic Slippers” received the Penny Fiction 2021 award and was anthologized in From the Depths (Issue 19, Haunted Waters Press). In early 2022, she was named a runner-up in the Frost Foundation Poetry Competition. And her poem “Magritte’s Apple Explains It All” was nominated for Best of the Net 2023 by The Ekphrastic Review.