Day 9. Not fiction.

Princess Cake

(although, no food that comes near my family/me ever looks this neat)

God, that cake. I always started at the bottom of my slice, the cloud sweet sponge cake, and then the raspberry, just the thinnest layer, more cake, whipped cream whisked by angel wings, more cake, more cream, and then, mountain-majestic, the spring-green marzipan icing, a perfect powdered-sugar-dusted shell on one side that dissolved in your mouth into almond smoothness.

The best way I know how to explain how wonderful it tasted, is to tell you to imagine a giant scab across your knee that itches in the most appealing way, the congealed fibers begging to be slowly picked at to see the new pink quasi-skin underneath, the kind of tempting that defies manners and normal sanitation standards.

We'd have it after dinner, my aunt b would bring it into the kitchen, and over the course of the night we'd sneak into the kitchen, peel off sizeable marzipan scabs with quiet fingers, off the edges where we thought no one would notice.