The Cremsnit Conspiracy
There is this cake called cremsnit or kremschnitt or cremshnit or any other twists of the German words krem and schnitt (the equivalent of something like cream and cut). I’ve been eating this cake ever since I was a kid. I don’t like cakes that much, except for this one and eclairs. My mom makes the best cremsnit there is. I don’t know why, but it’s just like that. Or I think it is. Everytime I go home to Constanta, she asks me what can she make for me. I never want cremsnit, because it’s a hassle to make it and I don’t want to bother her with my childish wishes.
After a decent while spent with my family, I go to the cake place. There is this one cake place … Of course I buy cremsnit, one big piece, just for me. It is square shaped and has some nice sugar powder on top. I devour it while Facebook informs me about such festival and such blond-bleached hair gawl.
I then finish my cremsnit, bring my plate to the plate place and want to get out. Some voice behind me:
“Do you need a napkin, dear?”
I turn my head. A nice lady sitting at a table tries, very delicately, to draw my attention by pointing at some imaginary powder sugar moustache over her lip. Accidentally, I glance at the plate in front of her. I smile conspiratorially. Some half eaten piece of cremsnit waits patiently on her plate.