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The Perfect Chocolate Cake

Working every day, and a finally did it!

By Elizabeth CamilleriPublished 3 years ago 4 min read
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It was the perfect chocolate cake. The first one she’d made. Oh, not the first cake she'd make. Not the first chocolate cake either. Oh no, there were many iterations of that. Not the first she had enjoyed. Not the first that looked good. She didn’t even know how it tasted. And yet somehow she could tell. This was a perfect cake. The first perfect cake she had ever made.

And as her heart swelled with pride, her overthinking mind began to distract her. Can perfect be perfectly recreated? Is true perfection the result of a billion tiny happenings, accidents and outright mistakes. Or is neat and tidy. Replicable? Reproducible? Like math, or code, or the cells in our body.

She pondered quietly, as she smelled the sweet cake. She felt her feet on the ground. And wiggled her toes in her shoes. All the things she was meant to do. Nothing that she should do. Nothing could be necessary and get done. But something she chose to do.

“Five things, five things I can see”, she whispered to herself. She was a lonely person, and found talking to herself (in all sorts of ways) could be oddly comforting. It was less lonely when you knew how to keep yourself entertained, even if it did sometimes make you toe the neurotic line.

One, the icing was a perfectly whipped deep dark chocolate, drying smoothly.

Two, the gold fondant, elegantly swirled.

Three, the gold beads, shining like nothing else around it.

Four, it’s cylindrical shape, grandly rising to the ceiling.

Five, well five. Me. I see myself reflected, in seven places in the top piece alone.

Sound. Four things I could hear. Ticking of clock. Time was getting close. The morning of my older brother's wedding, and I’m baking a cake. A perfect cake, but alas, just baking a cake.

I hear the groan of the coolroom door. Even with magic, I like to hear the sounds. The whoosh of hot and cold air mixing is the third sound I hear. And of course the fourth in the soft clap of the cake landing on the metal shelves, as the door closed safely behind. Patty would be by later in the day to take it to the reception.

As she locked the door of her bakery and hid the key in a flowerpot, she checked her phone and calculated she had 45 minutes before she had to leave for the ceremony. The make-up artist and hairdresser would have been waiting.

She dashed home, letting her adrenaline fuel her. If a witch couldn’t pull together a fabulous outfit in under 15 minutes, what are her powers for? Jittering across the street, Matilda grabbed her phone and dialled a friend. She smiled a wry smile as the dial hit it’s third ring. Finally the call broke into a familiar silence.

“Patty, my man. Are you awake? At this time of day?”, she chided to the morning groans of a man less put together.

“Ha, ha”, he effortlessly chuckled, “I'm awake, I’m awake. Of course I am on this special day.” Patrick was a nature jester, and Matilda's second hand man in running her business.

“I’ll be ready to go in 40. And then you’ll need to take the cake to reception. I’ll resend you the address later.”

“Yeah, no worries”

“And Patty, … dress sharp”. She clicked off the phone, and continued to battle her rising excitement and anxiety. Three things I can touch. Easy, my phone, my ring and the cloth of my clothes.

Before she knew it she was transformed into a beautiful sight. She did love an excuse to dress up. She popped a mint. Two things you can taste, the mint, and so soon that perfect chocolate cake.

As she stepped outside, and smelled that fresh autumn air, she knew it was a good day. Her heart felt light, and after all that transpired, over so many years ago, she was here. She was finally here.

With a quiet smile in her heart, Matilda seemed to float down the street, finally the beautiful confident capable woman she was always meant to be.

coping
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About the Creator

Elizabeth Camilleri

Sydney based scientist who dreams of being a writer, and much more.

Multiple personalities in a multiverse. Cool. Cool, cool, cool.

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