July 13, 2025

"Divine Lehmajun"

By Harry Arabian


 

Tony, my boss, had just returned from the ID Convention in Pasadena, and as soon as he walked into the office, he motioned for me to follow him into the breakroom. His face had that look — a mix of amusement, curiosity, and something close to disbelief.

"I’ve got a story for you," he said, leaning back in one of the chairs, loosening his tie like he was settling in for a campfire tale. "You’ll like this one."

It turned out Tony had a few hours to kill after the last day of the convention before his flight. The sun was out, his badge was finally off, and the stale convention coffee had long since worn off. So, instead of lingering inside the echoey halls of lectures and product booths, he decided to explore the Pasadena city center.

He hadn’t eaten lunch, and while wandering, he spotted a sign that stopped him cold: “Lehmajun Bakery.” The name triggered a memory — the last office Christmas party, when I brought a dozen fresh Lehmajun from Massis Bakery. Tony had devoured three in under ten minutes and spent the rest of the day asking where I’d found “those spiced little miracles.”

So, naturally, he stepped inside.

Behind the counter was a man in a flour-dusted apron, sporting a T-shirt and hat boldly displaying a political message Tony immediately clocked — one he knew would’ve sparked a debate in our office lunchroom. But hungry and curious, he pushed past it.

“The man greeted me with a smile like he’d known me for years,” Tony said. “So I ordered two Lehmajun, and I kid you not — they were better than the ones you brought.”

He must’ve seen my expression because he quickly added, “I said better, not much better.”

The baker, whose name turned out to be Vic, watched Tony savor the first bite before asking the familiar question: “You ever had Lehmajun before?”

Tony, mid-chew, nodded. “My favorite engineer, Herald, back in Boston — brought some to our Christmas party. Not as good as yours, though.”

At this, Vic’s eyes narrowed. “Did you say Herald from Boston?”

Tony nodded again, surprised.

Vic wiped his hands on a towel and leaned forward on the counter. “I had a classmate named Herald when I lived in Boston. High school. Science club leader. Always arguing with the Bible reading group. That Herald?”

Tony nearly choked laughing. “The very same! He’s my critical-thinking engineer.”

Vic let out a laugh and shook his head. “What a small world. He’ll miss these Lehmajun when he sees my hat and T-shirt.”

Tony smirked. “That’s why he left Boston. Said it never changes.”

At this point in the retelling, I couldn’t help but laugh.

“So what did you say to that?” I asked Tony.

He grinned. “I said, ‘Did you tell him the Witch Trials are over?’”

I laughed even harder, wiping a tear from my eye. “And?”

Tony leaned in like he was about to reveal a sacred secret. “He said, ‘Better than that — I packed a dozen fresh ones. With the hope that you might taste divine blessing.’”

At that, he reached into his bag and placed a box on the table. Still warm. The smell, earthy, spicy, rich, filled the breakroom instantly.

So there we were: two Boston skeptics, sitting over Lehmajun touched, allegedly, by divine grace — or at least Vic’s seasoned oven in Pasadena.

And for a moment, maybe the world really was that small.

 


 

 

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