Cake, cont’d

 

No picture, here, of that cake the other morning. It was chocolate, like the one I showed you how long ago with Aldi’s peanut butter cups in the bottom (you could hear a screech—my knife scraping hideously across the cake plate). I didn’t photograph Dale’s sausages for you, either, or Kathy’s skillet of peppers and onions (believe me, we feasted). And I have only a verbal description to offer of the meal I pulled from the oven Monday night for supper—collards out of the freezer, sweet potatoes Paulson dug from our dirt, cheddar, Parmesan, chopped onion, nutmeg.

I love staring at the perfect, lavish platefuls of food on the internet, I do, I do. I just wonder what hungry people think, looking.

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