Last night, as an apology for the registrar having overloading my honors writing class, the coordinator of the honors program dropped off a 3 Layer Fantasy Fudge Cake, a silver cake server, some foam plates, and a stack of elegant napkins. Most of the class sat there, meekly, refusing to admit they wanted to devour the cake at that moment, naked and in private.
Even when I discovered and announced that it tasted like crushed Hostess Ho-Hos or Ring Dings, the cream replaced with wet, delicious fudge, most of them just sat there. One had the effrontery to proclaim that "it was too early for cake." Too early? For cake? The perfect breakfast, brunch, lunch, dinner, dessert, or midnight snack? That cake?
A few of the less inhibited (read true) rose without delay. I recognized a kindred in one of them, Auriane, whose eyes glazed over with a rapture much like my own, if twenty years younger.
When I lectured, cake crumbs flew willy nilly from my lips. I kept looking down at it until one student suggested I replace its plastic lid. I told my class that I just wanted to roll in it.
Perhaps I reveal too much of myself.
Despite its dark deliciousity, despite its fudgy freshness, it is not, thankfully, white sheet cake. With white, buttercream frosting. I brought the remainder—about eight or ten three-high slices, covered in thick shavings of chocolate—home for my husband and daughter. The cake did not call me, wake me in the middle of the night, begging for my lips. I slept soundly and sent the cake off to my husband's office this morning, just in case it decided to speak this evening.
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