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They name it The Reward, however I reckon it’s extra of a non secular reckoning than a deal with—three layers of dense, darkish chocolate so wealthy it’ll whisper your secrets and techniques again to you. I met it on a Tuesday, which was ironic as a result of that morning I’d sworn off sugar, dairy, gluten, and temptation. However The Reward don’t care about your resolutions. It sits there on Miss Bobbie Jean’s milk-glass pedestal like a preacher’s spouse who’s simply came upon your corporation.

It ain’t dainty, no ma’am. It’s voluptuous. Brazen. Frosted in thick ganache so shiny you may see your sins mirrored in it. The type of cake that makes you loosen your bra and rethink your complete perception system. You don’t eat The Reward, honey—you give up to it.

Now I don’t know who baked it—coulda been Clara Mae from down the highway, the one with seven cats and a hand mixer from 1972. Or perhaps it was Eula Pearl, the church woman who swears Jesus turned water into fudge. Both method, this cake didn’t come from a field. No, this was stirred with vengeance and poured into pans like love letters sealed with cocoa and perhaps only a smidge of bitterness.

The primary chunk? Lord have mercy. I closed my eyes and noticed my complete life flash by—kindergarten naptime, that point I bought kissed behind the Greenback Basic, the years I wasted on that man who mentioned he didn’t “do desserts.” Nicely, I do. I do desserts. And The Reward is aware of it.

So when you’re ever down this manner, come discover me. I’ll be on the finish of the desk, barefoot and blessed, working by slice quantity two and giving thanks for whoever determined that chocolate, like forgiveness, needs to be served in layers.

Amen and move the milk.

ORDER a tremendous artwork print of ‘The Reward’ in your kitchen right here.

COPYRIGHT
2007-2025 Patti Friday b.1959.

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