I added water, oil, and eggs
to what I thought was a cake mix,
mixture stirring, beaters whirring.
It was during
all this churring I suspected
something about this isn’t right.
The consistency is a mite
chucked that thought right out the window.
It did rise, but not perfectly.
I tipped the pan up carefully
pondered the delicate frosting
until the cooled layers cracked open.
In shock I looked at the broken
pieces, hopes in
this token masterpiece shattered.
Then I took a bite; it tastes ok.
Be a shame to throw it away.
these raspberries, heat with sugar,
Then spread the jam throughout the cracks
to glue the tasty layers back.
poured over the top and no one
will know, that is, until the cake’s cut,
then everyone will see that glut
and wonder what
the hell that is supposed to be?
Take a photo to post online
and anonymously opine
the death of fine
dining. Anything for likes, right?
But what those people didn’t say
is the folks there liked it ok.
None thrown away.
Try it with vanilla ice cream.
5 thoughts on “The Baker, a Memoir”
With cake good taste is more important than looks…sorta like men.
Definitely true with men.
There is far too much focus on appearances in our society.
And too little focus on the purpose of things. Cake is good, but if all cake tastes the same, why eat cake?
A very good question indeed!