We got to know each other during my time in California, as a young English immigrant lured by the promise of a brighter future.�She was English, too, and we took a liking to each other almost immediately, the day we met at the hardware shop .
She loved to bake, and baked she did superbly, and I was naturally the greatest beneficiary of this hobby of hers. Baking, she once told me, was about apos;putting a bit of your soul in that piece of dough and making it come to lifeapos;. I was skeptical, of course, for how lifely could a slice of cake possibly be?�It was that day, however, when she invited me home for a meal and apos;a slice of cake with some teaapos; that I changed my mind, completely.
Turning up at her house that day dressed smartly with a tie, I remember that dinner was scarcely eventful - salad, steak, washed down with a lovely Merlot. What followed, however, was a real eye opener.
apos;Try thisapos; She had said, setting a slice of spongy cake down in front of me. apos;This cake has a story to tellapos;
apos;Really.apos; I said, trying not to look overly doubtful. apos;Did you bake it yourself?apos;
apos;Well, yes. Have a taste, will you?apos;
apos;Alright thenapos;
It was tangy, and a little bitter. Above that, however, it gave a certain sweetness and flavour that left me wanting more. It was exciting.
apos;How do you find it?apos;
apos;Oh, its...apos; Exciting was hardly the word one would use to describe cake, but I found myself hard pressed for a better description.
apos;Yes?apos;
apos;Alright, its excitingapos;
apos;Ah, yes. This cake.apos; She pointed at it with her fork apos;tells of the time I left my home 6 years ago to come to America. Itapos;s exciting, itapos;s filled with anticipation and hope, yet bitterness and sadness at the thought of leaving behind loved ones.apos;
I could feel it, then, how it must have been back then, a young girl of barely 20 leaving her home to cross the Atlantic. And that slice of cake told it all Amazing.
We had dinner about once a week from then, alternating between her place and mine. And always, a meal at her house would end with a slice of cake, and she would tell me her story. I never failed to be impressed; her interactions with a client summed up by a buttery chocolate cake (sweet but too slick for me); or, her receiving a letter from a sister whoapos;d just given birth, fully explained by a sugary, sticky lemon pie (Iapos;m really happy but I wish I could be there). And slowly, I got to know all about her, and her life.
The time soon came when she was to leave, to apos;once again be with my family, after so many yearsapos;, as she told me.�It was to be our last dinner together that evening, and this time, at my place.
Dinner came and went - the salad, soup, the entree - the dishes were cleared, and she praised my cooking, as usual. Finally, the piece de resistance, a chocolate cake which Iapos;d prepared that very afternoon.
apos;Here you goapos; I said, laying the slice of brown cake before her. apos;Chocolate cakeapos;.
apos;Wow, this looks... Simple. In the nice way.apos; She said. apos;Youapos;ve never baked for me before.apos;
apos;I made an exceptionapos; I said with a smile. apos;Why donapos;t you try it?apos;
apos;Alrightapos;
I looked at her closely. As I watched, I could see a swirl of emotions arising in her eyes.
apos;How does it taste?apos;
apos;Itapos;s... Itapos;s love.apos;
"Yes, it is. Sweet, yet with a mildly bitter aftertaste. Exciting, yet quiet and simple. But most of all, only you could taste it.apos;
She looked away
apos;Would you have some more?apos;
She nodded
apos;I�love you very much. Will you stay, please?apos;
As we embraced tightly, I�could taste the chocolate on her lips, rich and succulent. No, not chocolate it was. Love.
clicky hips, clicky jaw, clicky keyboard, clicky keyboards.
