“Izyan... these aren’t orgasms in the mouth anymore. My tongue is climaxing.”
That’s how good Izyan’s Apple Crumble Cheesecake is.
She was bored one weekend when she decided to try out something new. Her half-lidded eyes and listless hands were shuffling in tune to the muffled drones of the TV in the background while she eyed the multi-coloured cake creations and array of ingredients in the recipe book before her. The multitude of designs that flawlessly envisioned a pastry chef’s true artistry, bedecked in magnificent colours that told a flowing story of ideas evolving into grand creations were met with nonchalance.
I would’ve been salivating all over the book.
Then, her hands abruptly stopped when an intriguing title caught her eye. It was simple enough, no titles of grandeur or haughty foreign name (which sometimes seem random) to accompany the pastry. It read;
‘Apple Crumble Cheesecake.’
Spurring her inactive gears to life, she turned off the soporific voice of the TV and hastened to the kitchen where to me, the wonderful and edible magical things happen. She was hit by crushing waves of inspiration and the need to bake was overwhelming.
Not that I’m complaining.
Soon enough, all the baking peripherals were before her. She was set out for war and the ammunition was cake ingredients.
Meanwhile, deep in the outskirts of civilisation we call UiTM, I was bumping my head against the wall repeatedly, more numbed by the throbbing pain of boredom than anything else. I had little clue I was to experience a bout of intense pleasure from a non-obscene orifice.
Hell yeah.
Monday came about and I was invited to stay another night over in her room in Seroja. I took my laptop along so we can enjoy musicals like Dreamgirls, Grease and Hairpsray heehee badass movies with plenty of explosions, illogical death tolls and jugs the size of balloons on the point of bursting. The night seemed fun and promising, but whatever preparation I took, I was ill-prepared for the onslaught of euphoria in the appearance of (what we shall now refer to as) THE ULTIMATE CAKE OF ALL TIMEZZ (TUCOATz).
“Surprise! I bought cheesecake!” She excitedly exclaimed, reminding me of a pre-teen bragging about her latest Nick Carter poster. If that really happened, I thought, it’d sure be fun to have a loaded gun.
“Oh.” It seemed nothing new, so my lack of enthusiasm was rudely apparent.
“Apple Crumble Cheesecake!” This time, her lips creased into a sly smile.
“OH?”
Almost in slow-motion, she opened the lid of a worn-looking Tupperware while my eyes glistened in childlike anticipation. True enough, the old container was as misleading as Britney Spears’ twin silicones because inside it hid an image of pastry splendour, baking magnificence, cake beauty and all those words of English rule-breaking praises. An (imaginary) halo of resplendence shone over the TUCOATz, augmenting its appearance and accelerating my speed in salivating.
Surreptitiously wiping my pool of crystal clear saliva onto Balqis’ bedsheets, Izyan handed me a fork to have the honour of being the first to taste it.
...Okay fine, so I literally grabbed the cake and fork from her hands. Watcha gonna do ‘bout that, huh punk?
Anyway, elated by the extension of such an honour, I took a HUGEASS CHUNK delicate bite, wanting to savour TUCOATz.
The moment my mouth closed around it, I felt an explosion of taste. My taste buds melted at the slight sourness of the apple, the sweetness of the cake, the rich creaminess of the cheese. It was crumbly and moist as I bit into the crunchiness of the almonds. Just lightly, I tasted the zest of lemon juice and the inexplicable taste of cinnamon, the ingredients Izyan added as an afterthought. I sighed pleasantly as every taste danced distinctively, yet harmoniously on my tongue.
All in one bite.
And (this time, I’m not joking or being sarcastic), I teared.
I DIDN’T CRY *COUGH*.
Just that ONLY ONE OR TWO tears started materialising out of its own accord.
Izyan, touched by my wordless appreciation, took a picture to commemorate the moment and thanked me from the bottom of her heart.
“What the hell. You’re crying?? Shit I’m taking a picture. Hahaha here’s something to make fun of!”
Die, bitch. If only your cakes weren’t so orgasmic.
THE END.
