“Caster sugar, egg, flour, vanilla extract, cocoa powder, baking soda, beetroot juice, fizz of cola- just, the fizz, and some elbow grease,” said Darren, one of the finalists on Cake Wars.
‘How on Earth do you get just the fizz out of Cola and put it into the cake mix?’ thought Charlie.
Darren’s cake was a wondrous chocolate mountain, that fizzed and popped like a nervous cabbage’s bottom (without the smell).
Charlie stared at the TV and the chocolate mountain, letting his thoughts drift away into a magical chocolate land – gloopy chocolate lakes; chocolate rain drops that would melt as they hit your tongue; crunchy chocolate branches that could be snapped off of trees.
The little lump salivated at the chocolatey daydream, licking his lips, making subconscious ‘hmmmmm’ sounds.
“Charlie! Wipe that dribble off of your chin!” shouted mum. Charlie snapped out of fatty land and back into the real world, wiping the mouth leak from the fourth of his chins. As always, Charlie imagined himself on Cake Wars and winning it- being crowned the winner by Mr Cake. He always thought about which kind of cake he would make; which kind of cake he’d need to invent to be in with a chance.
The truth was, Charlie was useless at cooking. He’d burn a bowl of cereal given the chance. The last time he attempted making some cupcakes, the fire brigade had to be called to rescue him – not from causing a fire, he’d somehow managed to get stuck in a tree, which is deeply worrying, confusing and absolutely ridiculous, but that’s a story for another time.
“To vote for Darren, please call…”, said Mr Cake. Charlie didn’t vote at all this year– in part because he’s banned by his mum, due to voting 895 times for one of last year’s finalists, but also due to being jealous of the contestants; a new trait he’d begin to harbour over the past year. He so desperately wanted to be one of them. He so desperately wanted to hear Mr Cake saying “to vote for Charlie, please call….”.
“Here’s this year’s winner…. Charlie!”.
And the crowd cheered!
He could picture it now. Imagine how much cake he’d get to eat. He’d be the guest of honour at so many cake shops, chocolate shops – all sorts of wonderful establishments. He’d literally be the next Wonka. The reality was, Charlie didn’t stand a chance. In the wake of that realisation and in turn, frustration, he dipped his hand into an old bucket of popcorn he’d hidden under his bed and took a heaped handful of sweet & salty happiness. His belly rumbled with disappointment and a continuum of feeling full and lethargic. His belly hated him; he longed for some vitamins. Or just something that didn’t give red alarm signals on the nutritional value on packaging. His insides were more of a dump than a stomach; full of junk.
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