We would flick to the back of the book where the desserts section lay. I, the youngest of three girls, would mostly watch them as they watched the pages turn to display almost elicit portrayals of chocolate cake or wet mounds of mousse. They would groan with excitement. Therefore, I did, too. My sisters became fantastic cooks. Bonding from sharing recipes and pictures of their bakes, meals, and dinner parties, the success and the triumphs, and the pride in their shared hosting skills. It’s a bond that evaded me. I tried my hand as a baker once — I still try, and I come up, consistently short. Not like shortbread-short, but too-small-for-the-ride-type-short. People are kind enough to compliment my work when I shamelessly arrive at their door with flat cookies, dense cake, or curdled cream. I hope to be a beautiful baker, a mother with treats in the tins to fatten up my babies. But we must all face reality—I am not a good baker. 

This makes my obsession with sweet treats even more rampant, more illicit. The unreachable beauty and sweetness that I can only admire from afar. I’m obsessed. It coincides with or is counterbalanced by my obsession with skinny arms and loosening pants. Call me a bad influence, but I want to be skinny, and I want my cake and to eat it too. Yet, priority-dependent, I must finish a good meal with an even better dessert. A feast first for the eyes. The anticipation of sugar helps the meat juice and garlic breath subside from the main meal. What was once a post-meal cigarette in my twenties has morphed concretely into a well-thought-out and considered moment for dessert, something sweet, something that doesn’t necessarily need two forks, best to go for two options instead. This collection spawned from my obsession. My inability to make, therefore, my will to draw. My input into the group chat hosted by my sisters and mother. Taste shouldn't be separated from its married counterpart of sight. Sure, if you’re into flavour devoid of distraction, but no, ma’am, not for me. Give me the distraction. Give me the show. Give me the music and the dimmed lights, the firmness of the tablecloth beneath my fingertips, and the hot waitstaff that makes me feel small. I want the floofing of napkins onto my lap and forks, so small, they almost get lost between my lips.

I want pinky fingers erect and my reflection in the polished chrome bowls. Not bowls but little cups with a stand, a martini glass for sugar. Goddamnit, I want a spectacle if I’m going to sugar load so late into the night. 

At first, I attempted to make the desserts that make up this collection. I quickly realised I needed to call in reinforcements. The first, really the only person I wanted in cahoots with, was Holy Sugar of Northcote. I need no explanation for this partnership; her work is beyond perfection. Her lines—straight, proportions—exaggerated, sharp, generous, and sumptuous. I tasted, like the ‘Be My Guest’ scene in Disney's Beauty and the Beast, each one of her creations, dipping my fingertip into the creme, the icing or the centre ooze, and smacking my lips as I tasted. I landed with her lemon Meringue pie, sitting atop her plate and cutlery and doing my very best to do it justice. The plates have been scoured and sourced from France to Italy and back to Byron Bay. The desserts—called in from favours of friends to which sharing pastries and cakes have become the bonding of our relationship. Artist Marko Hrubyj-Piper made the cake, and ceramicist Sophia Goldschmidt made the creme brulee—French custard on a French ashtray. Affogato - from my photography preparation when I was last in Florence, Cannoli from my local baker, and Tiramisu—I thank you—from Yours Truly.