Whatever You Do, Make ‘er Moist

Measure your love in cups, not tablespoons.

I don’t know who said that, but I damn well know what they were talking about. At least, now I do. The story I am about to reveal is a tale of love, loss and being whisked away into a new life of longing memory.

They call me Pav. I’m a staple in this industrial world of heat and sugar. Each morning Chef James reincarnates me, starting with the eggs—eight large egg whites placed in a bowl on the counter awaiting room temperature status.

The next part is the worst part. The whipping. It is relentless and very demoralizing because eventually, I begin expanding—getting fatter and fatter by the second. Why do the whippings make me grow? How the heck should I know!? I am but a meagre baked good in a sea of pastry.

Sugar, a dash of lemon juice and vanilla, as well as a sprinkling of cream of tarter, are flung into my ever-growing body. These elements provide a sort of sheen to my physique, and that is when Chef promptly and without fanfare stops the incessant beatings, spreads me on a sheet of parchment and places me in an oven to roast to a slow and tortuous birth.

It’s not all bad.

I’ve come to enjoy parts of my creation. The inside of the oven is pretty neato once you learn how to ignore the searing pain of being crusted alive.

After my body has baked to perfection (hard on the outside, soft and gooey on the inside—just the way we likes it, am I right?) I’m left to cool on the counter.

Eventually, if I’ve managed to temper without cracking under the stress of my former ordeal, I am rewarded with a whipped cream (always made from scratch and never the abomination that is the Cool Whip variety) dressing, embellished with a traditional strawberry and kiwi finish.

The classic Pavlova. Everyone loves me.

There is only one who rivals the greatness of my pavlovian charms.

Chocolate cake.

As I overheard Chef speaking to a few clients about what desserts they wanted at their function, I must admit I was perturbed when they immediately disregarded me as an option. The man went as far as to say, “Pav-what-a?” thinking he was the most hilarious two-legs on the face of the planet.

“No, no,” the woman said in all seriousness, “We need a traditional chocolate cake for our event.”

Chocolate cake?!

Who were they entertaining? A bunch of friggen five-year-olds? What sort of self-respecting adult human turns down a perfectly constructed Pavlova for a chocolate cake? Insanity!

“Sure, sure,” Chef said. But I could hear it in his voice that he too was wondering what sort of sadistic food frauds had moseyed into his kitchen. I knew for a fact that Chef hated making chocolate cake.

By the time the day came to make the dreaded thing, I had been consumed and remade three times. What can I say? It’s the life of pastry. Ever pleasing. Always in motion.

Maybe I was made that morning with a bit of extra sugar, or perhaps I was undercooked slightly, and not all of the alcohol content in the vanilla had burnt off. What I do know is that I was feeling unusually frisky that fine Friday morn.

There was an extra bounce in my whip, and I felt like saying the words nae nae for some reason. I usually never pay much attention to Chef while he’s baking. I like the fact that I’m always the first on his to-do list. It makes me feel like Chef and I have this special sort of bond. So I typically don’t worry too much about anything else he’s creating for the day.

This fateful day though, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of the deep brown batter he was mixing in that, let’s be honest, super suggestive way. The sound of the spatula inserting itself in and out, in and out of that thicc mix—oh my gawwwwwd, it was making me so hot.

On several occasions, I had to make myself look away because I was beginning to sweat and lose my cream. Hello!

Even the preparation of the cake pans was getting my berries boiling.

And then! AND THEN! Watching her slide ever so smoothly into the pans, coiling around the walls and dripping with great satisfaction upon the parchment-papered floor of the tin would have been enough to make me scream out in euphoria had I possessed vocal cords and an actual mouth.

Instead, I reverberated with great ecstasy and knew in the deepest air pocket of my soul that this chocolate cake was the woman of my dreams.

I watched her in the oven rise like a phoenix from the ashes. I knew the absolute hell she was going through, but I also understood that love is pain, and I was willing for her to make this sacrifice for the chance of us being together at long last.

Finally, after what felt like eons, the sound of the dinger chimed, and Chef made his way to the oven to remove Chocolate Cake from her birthplace.

As he carried her in pieces to the cooling rack, the top of her crown peaked over the cake tin, and I knew in that quick glance that she wanted me just as badly as I longed for her.

I spent the next hour daydreaming of the crazy acts of debauchery that she, a chocolate cake and I, a beautiful Pavlova, might get into.

There we’d be side by side on the sweets table at a classy birthday party. My pristine cream-coloured shell smooshed sexily into her lush chocolate frosting.

Aweeeee fuck yeah!

Perhaps Chef might be carrying me to my next event and, oops, drop me directly over her. As I fell helpless through the air, I wouldn’t be scared because I’d have this sixth sense that she was right below me, awaiting my arrival with her smooth and luscious buttercream icing. PLOP and then, for the few precious minutes, while Chef cursed his clumsiness, she and I would rejoice in the melding of our equally sweet and sumptuous bodies.

Meringue and sponge, together at last. I’d wriggle my way into every god damn one of her layers, and she’d squirt her frosting halfway across the kitchen upon knowing the feel of my hardened shell.

The possibilities were endless, and I was helpless to think of anything but a big ole slice of my beloved Chocolate Cake.

I pulled myself out of this erotic reverie and was aghast at the beauty before me. Not two layers like I had expected, but four! Not just plain old chocolate buttercream between those layers but a fudge ganache filling. She was everything I could ever fantasize about in a tantalizing treat, and right there before my non-existent eyes.

I had officially lost my cream.

It was seeping all over me! She stared unashamed, telling me, in the non-talking way that we baked goods have of communicating, that she’d been thinking of me this entire time too! What great good fortune that she had the same feelings as I did.

That’s when I heard Chef yell in an aggravated tone, “This is why I hate chocolate cake! I can never get the moisture content right!”

Huh, that was a strange thing for him to say. She looked pretty dope to me.

“Toss the entire thing and call the clients,” he continued, “refer them to Betsy’s Bake Shop. She’ll appreciate the extra business. I don’t have time to mess around with chocolate cake.”

Wait. What?!

That meant Chef would never make another chocolate cake. Meaning I’d never have the chance to meet the love of my life again!

At that moment, I was picked up and placed in a box for my next event. I didn’t even see as the love of my life was flung into the trash can. All I could hear was the thud of that thicc mass plopping into the bin.

A single dollop of cream ran down the side of my ever-softening meringue shell.

“Wait!” Chef was screaming again, “What the hell happened to the damn Pavlova?! Its cream has melted all over the place. What is going on today? Chuck it out. We’ll have to start again.”

And as if all of my fantasies had come true in one swift second, I found myself atop of my chocolaty layered lady in the private sanctuary of our trash can love receptacle.

Now, a Pavlova doesn’t often kiss and tell, but I can tell you one thing: She may not have been moist enough for Chef, but that Chocolate Cake tasted mighty fine to me!

Hey-Oh!

And although we only had that one solitary moment together in the trash can, I am forever reminded of my moistless mistress whenever anyone brings up the topic of chocolate cake.

***

Lindsay Brown is a writer and humorist who doesn't churn out fiction tales often, but when she does, she ALWAYS makes it weird for everyone involved. For more strange and uncomfortable tales, check out her profile page HERE.