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Butcher, Baker, Chocolate cake maker

by nicholas thomson 12 months ago in performance poetry
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Nicholas J Thomson


(Butcher, baker, chocolate cake maker.)

With a father for a butcher, and a mother as a baker. No interest in candles, I become a cake maker.

With basic skills learnt, and my craft well on track. I slowly start perfecting everyone's favourite naughty snack.

Hour upon flour, sweat, blood and tears. Getting this recipe completely wrong would be one of my all-time fears.

Now honing my skills, across an array of different sweets. Being taught the basic skills by my mum, is one of life's greatest treats.

With Scones, cakes and muffins as well as Turkish delight, I'm starting to build a rep with just a one single little bite.

With pressure to continue, I ensure there’s no mistake. For there is only one reputation I need, to make the perfect chocolate cake.

With a fan base now growing and the recipe well on track. I’m very weary now this is something comp would love to hack. Fluffy as a cloud, a flavour rich as summer rain, a chocolatey flavour, that I dear you to try explain.

Batch after batch, consistency is now key. As you taste this slice compared to the next, then you start to see.

With sugar, butter and eggs, and don’t forget the milk. This mixture every time you taste needs appeal just like fine silk.

With a flavour and consistency, that’s starting to really bond. It's as if Mr. Potter himself, used his secret magic wand.

Now happy with my cake, the icing becomes my next attention. With chocolate upon chocolate, so sweet I forgot to mention. With a bowl of icing wonder, and spatula ready in hand, I slowly start spreading the goodness, covering vacant cake-land.

Now given time to rest, thirty minutes or so will do. Any talk of a better cake around I vouch to be untrue. As I slice it up and you take your bite, and your eyes now speak the words. Through facial expression its clear to see your judgements have transferred.

With whispers on street, your name thrown in that list. I receive a special order, a sudden little twist.

An order so honourable, the pressure starts to mount, for this needs all my attention and time as this cake really needs to count. An order that I know that there is no second chance. If I perfect this little slice of heaven, I’ll pull out my happy dance.

Hour upon hour. S

tirring, fold and mix. A single dip of the index finger, it tastes like everything clicks.

As I glide and smear the edges. Covered to the lip, unaware my daughter opened the door, the cake decides to take a little dip.

Frustration grows, nervous as hell, panic starts to set in. For if I get this beautiful chocolate cake right, it's my daughters' heart that I win.

Back to scratch and we try again, perfection is the key. For a room full of smiles and joy is the outcome I foresee.

The buzzer goes off, time for cooling to begin. No dip in the cake this time and my face begins to grin.

A finger dip once more, and the flavors taste just right. A class of just eighteen, enough for each to have a little bite.

With the cake sliced and shared, my daughter takes it off to school. Knowing how good this is going to taste, she’s gonna be so cool.

The verdict is in, the kids just loved, but the teacher she did miss out. She does such a wonderful job with Matilda my thought straight away is to shout.

As I whip up a batch and deliver the cake, she tries to hand me money. I replied with no way, there is not a chance, please just enjoy the cake Miss Honey.

performance poetry

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nicholas thomson

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