Crème brûlée, forever my favorite finish to a festive meal.
Ever since I experienced the thrill of fracturing the first torched sugar top of a mighty custard in second grade, I have sought these out for every fine occasion.
Our child has inherited my love for burnt cream, and so.
Now we clink the rounds of our spoon bowls in toast
to the decadence that shines and crackles below us.
"Cheers!" We exclaim, before our happy spoons become sparring weapons.
We crack and drag and lift and swallow and swoon and sigh and say mmmmmmmmm!
I taste campfire, smoke, s'mores, marshmallow, vanilla, butter, the ocean.
Crystalline caramel shatters on my tongue like posh Pop Rocks, then lodges in my molars.
And then she tries my side and I try hers, until the dish that could feed four is nearly empty.
When the ramekin resembles a full moon with microfine vanilla bean craters, we set utensils down, push back.
What a rush, what a regal treat.
Crème brûlée, forever my favorite, just like my dessert companion.
