ASHLAND — This Monday episode finds me bittersweet. Only yesterday, I was on cloud nine, in line at Carlo’s Bake Shop in heavenly Hoboken. This melancholy morning, I’m home, waking with little more than a tummy-ache and an empty cupcake box.

For foodie friends amongst us, you’ll recognize the famed New Jersey bakery as the showplace of Italian pastry chef Buddy Valastro. He’s a fourth generation master baker and cake decorator, more popularly known as the hot-as-an-oven “Cake Boss” from TLC reality show stature. His family’s been satisfying sweetie ladies like me since 1910.

I adore him — like I’m charmed by every-a-baker’s man who marks my cake with a “T.”

Though my heart hates me as I suck down a blood pressure pill every morning — with a cream cheese Danish chaser — I’m a bakery buff. A good judge of ganache if you will. Passing through a town, I seek out the local muffin man and put his creations to the test.

I’ve sampled the best pumpernickel bagels the Big Apple offers, enjoyed a paper cup of coffee and a delightful, cream-crammed, greasy, glazed doughnut right on the Pacific shores inside a laidback little place where I was the only patron wearing shoes.

I have to tell you — we have one of the best, right here amongst us.

This sure will serve as a scrumptious surprise to Dave Kersey this morning, but I know he’ll read this column, no need for a heads-up. It’s what he does most everyday. Shows up to work before the Flatwoods chocolate-loving chickens wake up, fries up the first batch of donut holes, pipes pink rosettes on a toddler princess birthday cake.

Then, he sits down in front of his cookie-filled cases with the newspaper.

Reading it cover-to-cover, he stays close to his community and the generations of families he watched grow up. My fancy for Dave’s started at age 16. The now-favorite bakery just opened its doors. Most fortuitously, I dated a cute boy who worked there. He delivered me tons of yummies, all wrapped-up in white wax paper sacks. It’s how he won me over.

Now I’m a mom. Every time we pop in, Dave doles out a yellow-frosted, smiley-face sugar cookie to my almost-16-year-old. He’s shared them since she was in Carter’s.

I know the bakery’s phone number by heart. When I ring up Dave around Thanksgiv

ing, without delay, he asks how many fresh, handmade pumpkin rolls and Italian Cream Cakes I’ll need. Somehow he remembers. Dave’s Bakery is a Saturday morning tradition. I pray it never goes away. In times when mega-store bake houses are cheap, close-by, and convenient, busy shoppers forget the jewels we have in tiny, down-to-earth, neighborhood bakeries — and most often pick up pre-packaged pies.

Not even close. Nothing smells as good as Dave’s on a crisp fall morning just before Halloween. Cider mulling; crisp red apples diving into a caramel bath.

Recently, I tried-out a deep-fried croissant — a flaky, buttery, syrupy concoction to make any lip-smacking Frenchman say, “ooh la la.” It’s what the home-made darling’s done for years. Make us purely happy. It’s that dearly-loved, sugary scent of Dave’s icing, topped with a heaping spoonful of honey.

How shall I combat my heartache now I’ve left Carlos Bakery?

I think there’s a certain Powell Lane establishment calling my name.