I was crunchy. I was flavoursome. I was tantalising.
Enticing, alluring, appetising, decadent, delectable, scrumptious, scrummy, lip-smackingly luscious.
Some would even say delicious.
I was all the words that ever described the perfection that was good food. That’s who I was, that’s what I was. Above all else though, I was afraid.
Mortified. Stupefied. Petrified. Horrified.
The end was near.
I was lining up for the firing squad. On either side sat desserts and entrées. All of them were afraid, shivering in their bowls.
From the front of the line a crème brûlée was whisked away on a silver platter. My heart soared for the dish, though despite its doubtless fear, it did not make a noise. Such a brave soul. I admired its courage. The line moved along.
Now it was me. I was in the line of fire. It wouldn’t be long before I too was taken to the other side. Silently I willed myself to remain as strong as the crème brûlée had. I had to be steadfast. This was my destiny. This was my purpose.
Fear gripped me, as I witnessed the slow approach of the silver platter. The rumours regarding its shine did not do it justice. It radiated the brightest silvery shine, and all my concerns immediately dissipated as I took in its twinkling gleam. It was beautiful… simply breathtaking.
My silver platter.
I was hoisted upon the glimmering tray, and found myself naked in the face of a refined moustache. The moustache twitched as it surveyed me.
The tray wobbled, indicating the start of my journey. The swinging doors grew closer and closer, as apprehension once again overtook my composure. What would be on the other side? Was I truly facing my end?
Time was running out. Momentum was building. The doors fast approached, growing considerably in size. There was no time to think! No time to ponder! Suddenly they were upon me…
This was it! This was the moment! I felt small, my creamy centre quivering in suspense. Was this truly it for me? Surely not… surely I had another purpose. Surely I was more than this? Or maybe not… maybe I truly was a simple dessert… nothing but a mixture of cream and sugar… but then again… maybe… maybe…
The doors swung open.
By Rochelle Jardine