A Glorious Mess

Our guests brought dessert with them. On the first pass, I declined, citing lactose intolerance and low-carb preferences. When the visitors left without taking their 2-inch squares of delight, I changed my mind. There were choices in the big box of temptation: vanilla or chocolate. Dark and dense or light and sweet. I chose the white mud version; my tastebuds have always preferred milder flavours and the buttery creaminess of white chocolate.

I considered the baubles on top of the cake. Not those deceptive cachous with their pearly hard shells, which threaten to break aging teeth. These were shamelessly sweet balls of icing sugar whose bright colours brought back memories of fairy bread, balloons on strings and the ball pits within whose delightful primary-coloured depths my children would disappear. I wish there were adult ball pits – I would love to dive into one and float about on plastic bubbles, savouring the twin delights of playtime and weightlessness.   

My plan had been to divide and conquer: a half square of vanilla to satisfy my curiosity and sate the desire to eat the things I know I shouldn’t. True to its ‘mud’ name, the cake felt far heavier than it looked. I nibbled my portion and felt… nothing. It wasn’t too sweet; it was neither too heavy nor too light. It was exactly nothing. Fireworks didn’t explode in my mouth at the long-denied and well-remembered taste of flour, eggs, butter, sugar, white chocolate and vanilla essence mixed together and baked at 150 degrees Celsius for 90 minutes.

Curious to see if a darker mix resulted in a more pleasurable or satisfying response, I repeated my actions on the chocolate version. Half a slice, as weighty and dense as its fairer cousin. It announced its presence in my mouth more determinedly than the vanilla, but I still felt something was missing.

Perhaps the answer was that the dinner was over, the guests had departed, and the fun and love I associate with celebrations had left with them. I realised then that it wasn’t the cake that brought me enjoyment, but eating it with people there to enjoy time with me. My younger self thought the cake was the important part, but my more mature self knows that cake without company falls flat. For me, the sweetness comes from communing with others while consuming said cake.

We are having dinner guests tonight as well. The leftover cake will be brought out for others to enjoy. Maybe tonight, I will eat the other halves of my divided slices and see if my theory is correct. If it is the mixed-together memory of cake amongst company that calls me to consume it, not the desire to taste the ingredients themselves, then tonight’s sampling will indeed be sweet.