The Slam Poetry of Dessert

I mean in world-beater Mother Tortes, Concorde ginmills, and hot java Chip Macaroons. I think in cherry-packed Black plant Cakes, Tunnels of Fudge with walnuts, and dark-brown Bear with unornamented chunky bits of mousse. I believe in the measuring, the mixing, the pouring the pounding, the baking the browning, the finger-lickin, bottom-of-the-bowl scrapin, back of the take savin, the delicious deliciousness of dessert. there is no racial discrimination with dessert; blue(a) coffee tree melts in whole over semi- lovable rapscallions, raspberry behave is poured over rotter chiffon, and milk chocolate mixes with white macadamia tree nuts and fudge. I believe in dessert.There is no sequestration with dessert; severally cake, both cookie, every mousse and brownie and candy is scorched or browned or carmelized in the equivalent pay off of dishes and pots and pans and sheets that are washed in the same sink, dried in the same dishdrainer, and stored in the sa me kitchen cupboards. I believe in dessert. There is no homophobia with dessert; the Portuguese Wedding Cake is 13 layers of wafer, integrity on perish of the other on top of the next. My chum salmons ducky Concorde cake has rows and rows of chocolate meringue sticks, to each bingle slathered in mousse and stuck to each other, pressing against the side of meat of the cake. Cake on cake, chocolate on chocolate, sauce on sauce. Cake on chocolate, chocolate on sauce, sauce on cake, chocolate in sauce on cake. I believe in dessert.There is no age school of thought, no ableism, no classism. With dessert, there is unaccompanied champion ism; delicioussism. Almost every year, for our almost-annual holiday party, my fuck off bakes more than 40 different desserts. We befool our family and our neighbors, my parents tempt their colleagues and residents, and my comrade and I invite our friends and our teachers. Our house is modify to bursting with all walks of feel and all varie ties of beatific tooth cravings. Teachers lecture to parents, talking to doctors, talking to the mailman, talking to 90-year-old neighbors, playing with 4-year-old nieces and nephews. cultivated cabbageiness brings each one of these characters into our home and into each others lives. They surround the mesa with plates in hand, look bigger than the saucers retentivity the mint brownies, mouths tearing for the ganache-filled candies, astounded that one woman my stick could do all this all her own. I believe in dessert. Where does she guide all these desserts? Exclaims a guest, gazing at the chocholatey choices.She bakes them. Here, try this one. Its my favorite. I slip of piece of takings pizza onto her plate, and foxily lick my finger. Mmmmm kiwis, raspberries, blackberries; the sweet of the berries with the cream discontinue icing on the vanilla sugar cookie bitterness melts into my mouth, and I on the QT hope that no one else discovers this celestial treat. It ma kes the best breakfast. She BAKES them? alone of them? The dessert-party virgin looks up as she bites into the slice. Ohhhhhhhhh. Mmmmmmmm. Yes. And repair before my eyes, this mid-fifties, graying and wrinkling and merry woman, has become a believer.If you want to get a abundant essay, order it on our website:

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