Travesties Like This
Don't Happen In My World
I looked too soon. I should have ignored the debris until a busser had cleared it away.
Enjoying my lunch in the Classical Room at Old Wive's Tales, I glanced at a recently vacated booth. Wadded napkins, drained water glasses, and empty plates littered the table. Mostly empty, I mean. Something caught my eye. I looked away, asking myself if I really saw what I thought I saw.
This time I really looked it over; my worst fears confirmed. I've seen a lot of strange things, I mean a lot of really weird shit. I've even had encounters with ghosts and interdimensional phenomena. But this--this was beyond reason, beyond explanation. I couldn't believe it. What kind of people would do this?
On a dessert dish, listing to the left was the wreckage of a piece of oatmeal spice cake. Not the good Duncan Hines or Betty Crocker mix cake. But the homemade, healthy variety. You know, the desicated concoction of tempeh and spelt and things that generally taste like dirt--that kind of spice cake. This is a cake that primative peoples use to absorb body fluids in the embalming process. Crumbly, pebbly, arid--the opposite of melt-in-your-mouth.
It wasn't the cake they had left. Are you sitting down? Good. OK, I need to take a breath first...
------
They left the frosting.
Tilted toward me, creamy, thick, and untouched--not so much as a single tine groove in it--was a perfect square of cream cheese frosting.
The freaks ate around the FROSTING! Frosting, that unlike the cake, is actually palatable. A confection with the sole purpose of making the rest of the sand castle of a dessert tolerable. The only thing standing between you and pre-mortem mummification, frosting acts as a lubricant, keeping the chipboard particles from sticking in your throat.
It has been a lifelong practice of mine to stop eating cake once the frosting is gone. I don't care how good the cake is. I was only using the cake to get to the frosting anyway. I'm not going to lie. The cake is just the fucking middleman. I'd rather have a plate of frosting thank you. Chocolate, lemon, cherry, butter cream, cream cheese--love it all.
What will you do with all that cake? Fill up a sink hole, spread it where you would bark dust, mix it with potting soil. I think it will kill aphids. Or racoons. Can't remember which. Let it petrify in the elements. Come winter, you can burn it in your woodstove.
I don't care what you do with the cake, but for god's sake, for the love of all that is holy and sacred and good in this world, eat the damn frosting.
Enjoying my lunch in the Classical Room at Old Wive's Tales, I glanced at a recently vacated booth. Wadded napkins, drained water glasses, and empty plates littered the table. Mostly empty, I mean. Something caught my eye. I looked away, asking myself if I really saw what I thought I saw.
This time I really looked it over; my worst fears confirmed. I've seen a lot of strange things, I mean a lot of really weird shit. I've even had encounters with ghosts and interdimensional phenomena. But this--this was beyond reason, beyond explanation. I couldn't believe it. What kind of people would do this?
On a dessert dish, listing to the left was the wreckage of a piece of oatmeal spice cake. Not the good Duncan Hines or Betty Crocker mix cake. But the homemade, healthy variety. You know, the desicated concoction of tempeh and spelt and things that generally taste like dirt--that kind of spice cake. This is a cake that primative peoples use to absorb body fluids in the embalming process. Crumbly, pebbly, arid--the opposite of melt-in-your-mouth.
It wasn't the cake they had left. Are you sitting down? Good. OK, I need to take a breath first...
------
They left the frosting.
Tilted toward me, creamy, thick, and untouched--not so much as a single tine groove in it--was a perfect square of cream cheese frosting.
The freaks ate around the FROSTING! Frosting, that unlike the cake, is actually palatable. A confection with the sole purpose of making the rest of the sand castle of a dessert tolerable. The only thing standing between you and pre-mortem mummification, frosting acts as a lubricant, keeping the chipboard particles from sticking in your throat.
It has been a lifelong practice of mine to stop eating cake once the frosting is gone. I don't care how good the cake is. I was only using the cake to get to the frosting anyway. I'm not going to lie. The cake is just the fucking middleman. I'd rather have a plate of frosting thank you. Chocolate, lemon, cherry, butter cream, cream cheese--love it all.
What will you do with all that cake? Fill up a sink hole, spread it where you would bark dust, mix it with potting soil. I think it will kill aphids. Or racoons. Can't remember which. Let it petrify in the elements. Come winter, you can burn it in your woodstove.
I don't care what you do with the cake, but for god's sake, for the love of all that is holy and sacred and good in this world, eat the damn frosting.
posted by Cindy St. Onge at 2:25 PM
3 Comments:
At work we have the birthday cakes. With most store bought cakes the little trim edge of frosting sticks to the cardboard. Well, I am the person who collects the frosting that was left.
Berriewine, that is perfectly normal, acceptible behavior. I applaud your humanity, and good taste.
the Goddess St. Onge
again her words are truth.
Her truth is sweet, sweeter than the frosting she adores.
again I am mere mortal
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