Mixed Memory

A Mixed Memory When mother made gateau for someone’s birthdays I beat the cream using a steel whisker. Boring work before the cream thickened and could be spread on the cake, but it was worth it, as I got to lick bowl. I thought of this as a tempest whipped the sea into a froth. In the galley I had a mix-master and could whisk up cream in no time, only I didn’t have the real stuff, had to use condensed milk but I didn’t feel inclined to lick its residue. The tempest blew into storm, the ship was jumping about like an untrained colt refusing to have a rider on its back. Life boats smashed, ship railings too we only hoped she could ride out the storm. In Hamburg I walked ashore and ate a piece of Black Forest Gateau, awe-inspiring. And to sit in a coffee shop that didn’t throw me off my chair like demented colt.