let them eat cake

January 4, 2019

When I was a little girl, my parents had a cook named Christa. Her repertoire wasn’t varied, but she cooked what she cooked –– shepherd’s pie, dover sole, roast lamb –– very well. Christa was Danish and she wore her hair in a tight low ponytail. She always carried chapstick in the pocket of her uniform. I liked Christa, and although she didn’t smile much, she showed her love through food. For our birthdays, she used to make my brother and I an extravaganza of a cake. One year, he got a football pitch while I got a huge fairy princess castle slathered in candyfloss pink icing. We still have photos of the cakes, and our little faces, wired with sugar and glee.

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