Tuesday, 4 August 2015

Oh right, that thing called "cake"

has appeared on the menu in the Clan Cat house. 
I rarely make cake. We eat very little of it. I did not make this cake. 
I went out with Middle Cat yesterday. I needed something from a place inaccessible by tricycle and she was going that way. Offered the opportunity I, unwisely, agreed. I say "unwisely" because travelling with Middle Cat always involves more time than I have to spare and, on this occasion,  it also involved money I should not have spent - the cake.
We did the essential shopping for me. Middle Cat did some essential shopping for the go-kart repairs for my BIL and the Nephew Cats. Then she decided we needed to find a place which was selling macaroons. It was not open. That did not deter her. She wanted a salted-caramel macaroon. Oh, she also needed milk. Right. We headed on to the supermarket. "They have macaroons there - smaller and you have to buy the box but I really, really want one." Yes dear.
And so we go hunting in the supermarket  in the section I usually ignore completely - the cake and biscuit and bun bit. She found the macaroons. 
And there was the cake. "The Senior Cat loves that," she tells me. I eye it off. Yes, I do remember him reminiscing about "Napoleon Cake" - the version of a state wide bakery. I eye it off again. 
It consists of a layer of pastry. This is followed by a thin smear of "jam". (I am not sure whether it is supposed to be strawberry or raspberry.) After that comes a layer of "cake" - of super sweet sponge like taste and consistency. Then there is another layer of "jam", another layer of pastry. The "piece de resistance" is a layer of pink icing topped with coconut.
I am not  sure what all this really is but it does not fit the definition of "cake" in my book. Against my better judgment we buy it. We take it back and present it to the Senior Cat. 
"Ooh Napoleon cake. I haven't had that for years." (This is true.)
No, Middle Cat did not want any. She has her salted caramel macaroon. 
So, we left it until "teatime" and I cut two slices then. It was, as I suspected, overly sweet. It was edible but I did not care for it. The Senior Cat ate his slice even more slowly. He had a far away look on his face. I knew he was remembering other things - things he associated with eating that particular sort of cake. No, he didn't want a second slice right then.
I wrapped the cake up tightly to keep it fresh.
"It was nice of you both to get it but it was rather sweet," the Senior Cat told me, "I think I prefer the sort you make."
Is it any wonder I love the Senior Cat?

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