A leftover wedge of Sweet Lady Jane's inimitable Princess cake. Yellow butter cake gently layered with pastry cream and raspberry preserves, cloaked in a dome of marzipan. It's sunshine on a cloudy day.
Just knowing that the Princess is tucked safely away in the refrigerator is enough for me. I can eat sparingly now without feeling deprived because I know that later this afternoon, a small slice of decadence awaits me. The anticipation of enjoying it is almost as satisfying as the actual eating. (I said almost.)
But of course, I must keep up a vigilant guard against Piero and Luca, my kitchen ruffians. They will undoubtedly return home starving and on a frenzied hunt for nourishment. Those two have the appetites of Visigoths sacking Rome. They don't taste, they merely swallow. If I don't quickly herd them toward a tasty alternative, my precious Princess cake will disappear down their bottomless gullets without a trace.
On second thought, I think I'll eat my slice now.