I watch as the sprinkles in my bowl slowly sink into the melted debris left behind by my single serving, slowly-whipped, vanilla bean ice-cream scoop. Soon the sugary treats become mere pools of color as they are completely stripped of their structure. My eyes travel over the massive bulge of ice-cream, probably more describable now as “the ruins of a massive bulge of ice-cream.” I suddenly find myself staring at the face of my meal. The very purpose to which this sweet indulging known as dessert was tacked onto the end of “’dinner.” I find myself staring at the small sliver of soft, decadent cake, crowning my smorgasbord bowl.
Rather reluctant to disturb the picture of my gradually-dying dessert platter: I settle for a gentle prodding of the fork to get a bite of cake to my lips. Surprised by how hard it is for me to cut through the cake with my fork, I do not notice the suspicious smell to the crumbling figure, or even the odd color it has obtained. Instead I can’t help but release a grin as I imagine the taste of the cake dancing through my mouth, tickling my taste buds and carefully sliding down my throat.
When after much thought I bring the cake to my mouth, the crunchy hardness of a recipe not followed shows up as well. I bite down hard, intent to make the most out of the cake: but my teeth not having the careful precision of a fork or a knife, could find no way to slice through the stone-hard mouthful. My heart sags with the pressure of a great let-down. No cake would be dancing through my mouth, or tickling my taste buds, or even carefully sliding down my throat. I could not imagine anything worse.
Looking around the table, I analyze the expressions of my fellow taste-testers. By the looks of it, they are not impressed either. The determined stifling of frowns was forcing creases on their disgusted features. Every face mirrors this carefully constructed expression, and I knew even I could not hide my opinion of the food. After a few moments I decide that someone must speak up. Fortunately I am not the only one to arrive at the conclusion, and a surge of relief floods over me as my dad clears his throat to say something. “So, Honey. Thanks for the cake; it was,” he struggles to find the right word “fascinating.” He pauses, thinking of his best way to the root of the problem. “What, exactly, did you make the cake with?” he decides, clearly thinking it pointless to stall.

“What did you think I made the cake with, dear? Pebbles?” she retorts, not having tried the cake herself.

“In regards to the taste: I wouldn’t find it hard to believe,” I add, jumping into the interesting scenario.

And so the conversation went on, Mum defending her cooking abilities and Dad defending his taste-buds. Until Mum concluded she must try the cake for herself, and realized that the cake, did in fact, taste rather repulsive.

“Eeewwek. This is gross. Why didn’t you guys speak up sooner.” Mum sputters, spitting the cake out as she speaks.
And at that, I slid my fork into my bowl and stood up to gather the plates. I figured nobody cared for anymore of the cake. I knew that I certainly didn’t. Since then, no cake my mum has made has resulted in so disastrous a turn-out, but I have learned to be extra wary of Mum’s dessert masterpieces. For good reason, too.