Freewriting: gourmet memories

The plates came, one with five perfect doughnut holes dusted with cinnamon, one with a small bowl of bread pudding liberally doused with caramel and studded with walnuts; a single blue birthday candle stood on its plate, rooted in its own wax, dripping merrily, waiting for wishes.

But the piece de la resistance was the sculptural mound of spun sugar, placed majestically at the center of the table. It shone like filaments of glass, like a nest of finest spiders' silk under the yellow accent light that hung over the booth. It was palest blue, like a child's drawing of a fluffy cloud (that cannot be drawn white on white) and it had a faint fruity aroma.

Squeals of childish delight accompanied eager fingers. It tasted like a perfect memory. A day at the zoo or the circus with Poppy, unmarred by EMily's fear of the clowns. Gourmet memories, served up with rock and roll iconography; ever so slightly better than you remember, not as sticky, not as cloying. Sepia photographs tinted into technicolor.

No one sings. We are too old (and not drunk enough) for that. The candle is burning low. I forget to make a wish as I blow it out.