There is a curious ritual around saccharine that keeps surfacing in everyday moments. It begins with a playful claim that stolen saccharine coffee somehow tastes better than the ordinary processed sugar, and it ends without a tidy morning greeting. When an envelope is handed over, the narrator asks for another and slips it into a pocket, and if a small bowl brims with envelopes, two or three are quietly pocketed as well. Sometimes coffee and donuts find their way to the day priced at seven or sixteen packs, yet the tally never climbs past three. Saccharin costs little, a confidant murmurs, while the narrator confesses to a harmless crime that may be a sweet habit or a cherished tradition. The mood is intimate, a little mischief woven into the fabric of routine.
On certain mornings, a jacket retrieved from the closet reveals a secret pocket concealing a tiny envelope. This prompts a gentle retrospective: tracing where that envelope traveled, what adventures it shared with the wearer and with an unnamed American, and which cafe or restaurant was chosen for those moments. Perhaps it was a Chinese restaurant in Barcelona, a seafood spot in Cádiz, or a tranquil picnic area near Málaga. Maybe the envelope visited the Ibiza airport or sat at a friend who studies insects, a person who bleeds Porto football, or simply a familiar home. Each memory feels like a breadcrumb that links place, moment, and flavor.
Sweetened or mild, a substitute that carries a hint of nutrition, saccharin has quietly become a ubiquitous presence in society. In many places it arrives without fanfare, a familiar option that shoppers trust in the pursuit of lighter indulgences. The cultural conversation around sweetness sometimes suggests a resistance to weight gain or diabetes, and the narrator observes this with a wry, almost amused, sense of reality.
The narrator admits to the genuine thrill and dizziness that stevia brings, a sensation that interrupts the monotony of daily life. One day blends into the next, and there is a deliberate self-encouragement to accept the present. If stevia is natural, calorie-free, and still somehow mysterious, it raises a small, teasing question: why not embrace the sweet side of life without guilt? The thought circles back to saccharin, not in bars but as a recurring idea, a familiar companion that may share space with a wardrobe update or a modest splurge. Purchases of stevia can subsidize the indulgence in saccharin, a balance that feels almost virtuous in its own quirky way. The language around stevia, sometimes written as a label for a plant known as sweet grass, hints at ancient associations while remaining firmly modern in the supermarket aisle.
In the everyday landscape of the grocery store, saccharin, stevia, and other sugar-alternatives occupy the same section as familiar sweets. The juxtaposition is almost comic, a reminder that the quest for sweetness travels through many forms. A lighthearted line captures the moment: someone notes that these options will not be found alongside Iberian ham, a boundary between savory tradition and the modern sweetener debate.
There is a gentle resistance to the idea that saccharin should be chased away by chocolate donuts, jam cookies, chocolate bars, or custard pastries at the side. The narrator even jokes about having written the word bun twice in an article about saccharin, a small creative flourish that hints at longing for a morning that tastes a bit brighter. It invites readers to wonder whether an article on saccharin can truly sweeten the start of the day, or if the reference to Saccarino—the iconic, memory-touched character from Ibáñez’s stories—speaks to a familiar stage of youth when the world seemed nothing but sugar. In moments of reflection, it feels as if the entire mountain of memory is coated in sugar, inviting a nostalgic smile rather than a heavy-handed conclusion.