.png)
They call it The Reward, but I reckon it’s more of a spiritual reckoning than a treat—three layers of dense, dark chocolate so rich it’ll whisper your secrets back to you. I met it on a Tuesday, which was ironic because that morning I’d sworn off sugar, dairy, gluten, and temptation. But The Reward don’t care about your resolutions. It sits there on Miss Bobbie Jean’s milk-glass pedestal like a preacher's wife who’s just found out your business.
It ain’t dainty, no ma’am. It’s voluptuous. Brazen. Frosted in thick ganache so shiny you can see your sins reflected in it. The kind of cake that makes you loosen your bra and rethink your entire belief system. You don’t eat The Reward, honey—you surrender to it.
Now I don’t know who baked it—coulda been Clara Mae from down the road, the one with seven cats and a hand mixer from 1972. Or maybe it was Eula Pearl, the church lady who swears Jesus turned water into fudge. Either way, this cake didn’t come from a box. No, this was stirred with vengeance and poured into pans like love letters sealed with cocoa and maybe just a smidge of bitterness.
The first bite? Lord have mercy. I closed my eyes and saw my whole life flash by—kindergarten naptime, that time I got kissed behind the Dollar General, the years I wasted on that man who said he didn’t “do desserts.” Well, I do. I do desserts. And The Reward knows it.
So if you’re ever down this way, come find me. I’ll be at the end of the table, barefoot and blessed, working through slice number two and giving thanks for whoever decided that chocolate, like forgiveness, should be served in layers.
Amen and pass the milk.
ORDER a fine art print of 'The Reward' for your kitchen here.
No comments:
Post a Comment