Cake

It's December, and all I want to do is put on my flannel pajamas and burrow under a blanket on the couch, maybe with a hot cocoa, or better yet an Irish coffee. I want to be warm and cozy and safe. I want to turn on all the lamps, every glowing bulb, and flood my little apartment with yellow artificial light. The Irish coffee will warm my lips and belly with the subtle heat of whiskey, and the canned laughter from a TV sitcom will relax my facial muscles until I'm smiling along.

Maybe I'll even bake a cake, a dense, chocolaty one with gooey icing and chopped walnuts on top. It would be the perfect counterpoint to a crisp, chilly evening. It's been a long time since I've made a cake, but I'm sure the recipe is still in my box, covered in butter stains.

Baking a cake seems like the beginning of a story. Who is the cake for? Will it taste good? Will they like it? But I don't have time for a whole story right now, so I will just put on my pajamas and go to bed. Maybe I will leave the lamp on for a while.