Today’s essay addresses a relationship topic, and it will publish on Valentine’s Day. But it’s hardly fit for romance.
The topic?
King cake.
In Louisiana, where I live, king cake is part of Mardi Gras. It’s as important as parades, bead necklaces and French Quarter debauchery.
Louisianans gorge on the wreath-shaped cinnamon pastries, frosted in hues of green, gold and purple – and often stuffed with fruit filling or pudding. Grocery stores stock heaps of them.
King cake is wondrous. Everyone knows it.
Everyone minus one.
My wife.
I found out only this year.
“Too sweet,” she declared.
She bought a king cake weeks ago and nibbled at it – after scraping off the frosting.
“Too sweet,” she said again.
Then no more king cake.
“Why no king cake?” I asked.
“Too sweet,” she said. Again.
Together for 36 years. Deceived for 36 years.
People! Glimpse into my life, at this barren drudge of king cakelessness that mars my Mardi Gras.
Privation motivates mightily. I whined. And three days ago, to shut me up, she bought another king cake.
Cancel the rescue.
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The only time I attended Mardi Gras was well before you met your wife. I stayed with a college chum at his home. I recall everything you mention about Mardi Gras but the king cake. I’m sure i would’ve been sweet on it.
King cake is one of the tamer parts of Mardi Gras. And one of the best.
Viva la Galette des Roix!