let me eat cake

I had a most disturbing incident at church the other night.  There I was, all set for break time (I go to a contemporary church where you're not expected to sit for more than half a service without tea and biscuits.  Hallelujah!  Since switching, I've had the hardest time in the world getting through regular services.  What do you mean there's no tea?  How am I supposed to survive?  Communion's all well and good, but there's a bit more physical sustenance in cake!) when what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a platter of cakes with chocolate in there!  I was ecstatic.  It had been just the sort of day that would be just that much better with a little taste of chocolate.  Any chocolate would do, but I was particularly delighted as some of the chocolate looked to be homemade.  What's more, it looked to be brownies, which are extremely rare in Sydney.  Particularly homemade brownies.

Brownies are a food that they certainly have here, but just not with the same depth of feeling that we do.  They're a much bigger treat than back home.  Come to think of it, the only times I remember eating brownies in Sydney are when they've been baked by an American.  (Similar is the pretzel problem.  There are pretzels in the grocery store, but only one or two brands to choose from.  And they're just not all that common.  Whereas any American social scene featuring chips is quite likely to also have pretzels, they're more of a novelty here.)

One thing they do have here, though, is snow capped mountains.  Contrary to popular belief, these are not majestic vistas of epic proportions.  Or, rather, they kind of are, but not in the way you're thinking.  Snow capped mountains are the name of Max Brenner's cupcakes that I had hitherto left undiscovered, much to my shame.  I have now discovered them and they are amazing -- partially because they heat them up (mmm!) and partially because they are topped with some sort of big crunchy sprinkle thing.  I haven't got a clue what it is, but I really couldn't care less.

But there I was at break, at church, and not at Max Brenner.  I was craving chocolate and suddenly in the midst of a conversation.  A nice conversation.  A friendly conversation.  A rather longer conversation.  But not to worry!  Our church is very hospitable and even brings trays of goodies around to those stuck nicely conversing.  Alas, though:  our tray did not contain the brownies.  It contained Coles chocolate cake.  I considered.  Chocolate was what I wanted, and it is reasonably good, but nothing compared to homemade brownies.  I held out.

After the necessary social niceties drew to a reasonable ceasing point, I suggested that, perhaps, a stroll towards the tea would not be out of order.  My conversant agreed and we meandered forward.  She stopped and began a new conversation and I made a bee-line for the brownies.  I found them easily enough and selected one I thought looked particularly delectable (far be it from me to ever pick a brownie haphazardly).  I glanced around:  thankfully no potential conversation was zooming directly towards me.  I sighed and took a bite of fruitcake.

Fruitcake!!  Fruitcake!!  I'd been severely misled.  I am not over-fond of fruitcake to begin with (who is?), but fruitcake when you are anticipating a brownie is grounds for ... well, something severe.  One of those awkward moments ensued:  can't spit it out, can't spit it out, can't spit it out.  Must chew, must swallow.  We are in a church, after all.  Spitting is not a done thing.  Neither is looking disgusted with the food you've been so generously given.  Must chew, must swallow.  Must chew, must swallow.

Eventually I got it down.  Then the dilemma:  what to do with the rest of it?  Unfortunately, I tend to err on the side of politeness (I once ate an entire grilled cheese sandwich entirely out of politeness.  I hate cheese, and particularly grilled cheese.  I was chagrined, because I could tell that it was, to anyone remotely fond of cheese, an absolutely excellent grilled cheese sandwich.  But to me, it was pure torture.  In the end I ate it so quickly my hosts immediately asked if I'd like another.  No, no, thank you, very, very much, I said.  I'm just fine for now, thanks.  And another time, just the other day, I was eating sushi and suddenly realized there was something if not quite cheese, then definitely very cheese-like, in the sushi I was eating.  To this day, I have no clue what it was, but I managed to swallow it down.  Sushi Roll is darn lucky I wasn't there by myself.  I will admit, though, that when I once mistakenly ordered haloumi (I thought it was fish, honest.  Doesn't it sound like a kind of fish?  Yes.  That wasn't rhetorical.  It does.) I promptly arranged a trade with a friend of a friend I'd never met.  And have never seen since, come to think of it.), particularly in church, which dictated quite simply that I finish it.  Finish it I did, though it didn't stop me complaining about it afterwards.

Before the end of the break (our intermission is really delightfully long), I found two friends and regaled them with the story of my unfortunate adventure.  (No sense having an unfortunate adventure if you have to keep it to yourself.  For instance, one of the very friends I was regaling was one who had, earlier that week, been caught red-handed picking his nose on a public bus.  By none other than moi, who had been so excited about finding a friend in an unexpected place (I tend to feel I've arrived somewhere if I happen to bump into an acquaintance unawares) that I'd run up to the bus window in question and started pounding at a rate rapid enough to draw his attention away from his nose and to the girl rapidly bounding up and down outside the bus window.  But I digress.)

My friends were highly nonchalant about my misadventure and even found it to be on the humorous side.  (It wasn't their brownie that had morphed into a fruitcake!)  Just then someone walked by with another tray of goodies.  I spotted an entity that looked suspiciously chocolate.  However, bearing recent experiences in mind, I was suspicious of its supposed chocolateness.  I proceeded to probe, sniff and lick -- okay, I didn't lick it, but it sounded good, hey?  Examination revealed it to be distinctly Not Chocolate.

"It's a date loaf," offered a friend helpfully.

"A date loaf?" I inquired.

"Mmm, it's good, you'll love it," he said.

This particular friend has a habit of informing me I'll love something, generally on the basis that he does.  Quite often he's right; quite often he's wrong.  It's a bit hit or miss really.

I bit off the top of the date loaf, which looked to be the best part.

"So?" he inquired.

"It's not chocolate," I said.

"No, it's a date loaf!" he said.  "Isn't it good?"

Thankfully it was then that the announcement came to return to our seats for the Bible reading.  I finished the date loaf (do I even like date loafs?) and made my way back to my seat.

Just in time to see the platter go past.  With nothing left but the crumbs of the Coles’ cake.  Amen.