Jack of Hearts
05-11-2011, 03:02 AM
BOSTON CREME
Ok, pop the lid.
The first thing you’re gonna notice is that sweet painted chocolate. You could die at this top level with a messy smile on your face. It kind of breaks your heart. It kind of breaks your heart to cut it. But what’s the alternative? Face first?
So you line up the knife. While you’re eyeballing it you see where the chocolate streaks down those golden crumby edges. It’s going to be pure heaven. It’s going to be ‘Mmmm, Mmmm, Good ™.’ The knife sinks in like a tugboat taking on water. It’s so fast. It leaves a swift line in the dark frosting. Perhaps you cut just a bit past ‘exact’ center- but this is your cake. This morning you woke up with the want of it. There was nothing to do today and you looked out the window and it was sunny with blue skies and nothing to do today. It was ten thirty in the morning. You’re an adult, you told yourself, and you can have cake anytime you want. No one there to say no. Cake at eleven, then. But there’s nothing to do, and cake in the morning is all wrong and not what your mother told you when you were a child and things weren’t supposed to be this way. It’s not ok.
So you stayed in bed until two. The television remote, black and sleek in the daylight, was within reach so you had something to do. Sitcom re-runs are like visiting old friends but sometimes they’re like a mausoleum when they’ve aired more than five years ago. There’s a touch of sinister in their familiarity, the rote motion of the lives and arcs they’ve lived and you’ve witnessed before. You’re warm and happy in watching them but in some quiet space terrified. These characters, actors, cameras have all moved on, changed. You get this funny feeling about yourself.
And then it’s time to get your cake.
You made a special trip to the grocery store. Now you’re back and cutting it. You felt bad about cutting it, knowing it could never again be as ornate as it was, and then knowing you’d fully committed. The first bite was a bit muted but otherwise everything you’d thought it be, moist and laced of sugar crystals and the texture of crumbly bread, and more. Not to forget the cool, cool crème. Now that it’s in your mouth it’s heavier than you imagined but that divine flavor is still there. After three bites you don’t know how much of it you can eat because it’s so rich and overcoming your senses.
Half the cake is gone. It’s the only thing you’ve had to eat today. Some days you go to work at a boring job, so there’s always that. Your stomach hurts- your body is grabbing for nutrients, it knows there’s something in there but there are no nutrients to be found in the sugar, in the saccharine sweet. In a way you’re starving and always were. Where did everyone go? You look at the half gone cake and think about how you got your car keys, turned the ignition, drove five miles each way, the entire time the intention in your head clear and decisive about what you were going to do next. But the half gone cake says to you, who does this, what sort of person… and stupid idea. What sort of person goes to the grocery store just to gorge themselves on cake and nothing to do and then you have to answer I am. I do.
And then you hit plate.
Ok, pop the lid.
The first thing you’re gonna notice is that sweet painted chocolate. You could die at this top level with a messy smile on your face. It kind of breaks your heart. It kind of breaks your heart to cut it. But what’s the alternative? Face first?
So you line up the knife. While you’re eyeballing it you see where the chocolate streaks down those golden crumby edges. It’s going to be pure heaven. It’s going to be ‘Mmmm, Mmmm, Good ™.’ The knife sinks in like a tugboat taking on water. It’s so fast. It leaves a swift line in the dark frosting. Perhaps you cut just a bit past ‘exact’ center- but this is your cake. This morning you woke up with the want of it. There was nothing to do today and you looked out the window and it was sunny with blue skies and nothing to do today. It was ten thirty in the morning. You’re an adult, you told yourself, and you can have cake anytime you want. No one there to say no. Cake at eleven, then. But there’s nothing to do, and cake in the morning is all wrong and not what your mother told you when you were a child and things weren’t supposed to be this way. It’s not ok.
So you stayed in bed until two. The television remote, black and sleek in the daylight, was within reach so you had something to do. Sitcom re-runs are like visiting old friends but sometimes they’re like a mausoleum when they’ve aired more than five years ago. There’s a touch of sinister in their familiarity, the rote motion of the lives and arcs they’ve lived and you’ve witnessed before. You’re warm and happy in watching them but in some quiet space terrified. These characters, actors, cameras have all moved on, changed. You get this funny feeling about yourself.
And then it’s time to get your cake.
You made a special trip to the grocery store. Now you’re back and cutting it. You felt bad about cutting it, knowing it could never again be as ornate as it was, and then knowing you’d fully committed. The first bite was a bit muted but otherwise everything you’d thought it be, moist and laced of sugar crystals and the texture of crumbly bread, and more. Not to forget the cool, cool crème. Now that it’s in your mouth it’s heavier than you imagined but that divine flavor is still there. After three bites you don’t know how much of it you can eat because it’s so rich and overcoming your senses.
Half the cake is gone. It’s the only thing you’ve had to eat today. Some days you go to work at a boring job, so there’s always that. Your stomach hurts- your body is grabbing for nutrients, it knows there’s something in there but there are no nutrients to be found in the sugar, in the saccharine sweet. In a way you’re starving and always were. Where did everyone go? You look at the half gone cake and think about how you got your car keys, turned the ignition, drove five miles each way, the entire time the intention in your head clear and decisive about what you were going to do next. But the half gone cake says to you, who does this, what sort of person… and stupid idea. What sort of person goes to the grocery store just to gorge themselves on cake and nothing to do and then you have to answer I am. I do.
And then you hit plate.