Tiramisu

I like ugly. I like messy, wet, raw and used. I too, like shiny things, as any good and attention-seeking woman does. I want sharpness with my chaos. Disheveled placement with an intention and purpose. I want those watching to wonder whether it perfectly came together at the last minute or if my manipulation made it appear just so. Cream pooling into a first drip, a melting which hints at time. The anticipation of the changing states of food, what was ripe will soon be spoiled. Time-sensitive, I hope to deliver a light dusting of anxiety under the heavier dusting of cocoa powder. I like cream still cold from the fridge. I like to lick the bowl, the spatula, and the mixer after the icing has been whipped and layered. I like coffee in the afternoons. I like to pretend I’m Italian, eating dinner well into the night and dessert into the early morning. Aperitifs between courses, cigarettes between conversations, coffee between mascarpone, between sugar, between cocoa. I like the way I can see my reflection in silverware. I like the way layers are visible yet indivisible. I like my tiramisu messy, cold, ugly, rough and ready.