Mr. Mammoth

Australia

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Ikea Cake

May 21, 2019


One day, when my brother and I were young (I was 9 and my brother was 7), we went to IKEA. Not a big deal, although we would always be fascinated with the model bedrooms there. My brother, father and I checked out and were confronted with the food store. My father was interested in the wide variety of jams, including lingonberry, and left me and my brother to our own means, so long as we didn’t steal anything, break anything or leave the store. We accepted these terms and rushed over to a giant wall of candy dispensers and immediately began grabbing as much as could fit in the little paper bags, our preference being the Swedish marshmallows.
Then, we saw it. The Daim cake. It was beautiful. The plastic model on top of the boxes of frozen pastries captivated our little minds. We immediately dropped the bags and bags of marshmallows and practically dived towards the plastic model to admire its little chunks of peanuts sprinkled over a chocolate-covered base. For all we knew, the cake might have been the physical embodiment of every happy emotion in the world compressed into a disc of cake. We stocked up on at least five boxes of the chocolate cake and a vanilla flavoured cake made it in as well.
So, there we were, at the checkout, holding boxes and boxes of cake, with the biggest grin on our faces. “Dad,” we both asked at the same time. “Can we have the cakes?” My father, being a man with strictness, common sense, and good parenting replied with a firm voice and steady reasoning. “You can have one of each flavour, so long as you pick up those marshmallows you dropped in the sweets aisle.” We solemnly agreed, because it was the cake that mattered.
By the time that we got home from our two-hour long ordeal to the lands of Swedish furniture stores, it was around 8.30-ish, which was bedtime. Our father told us to go to bed, but we resisted. We would get the cake now. And nothing would stop us. Except for him telling us that if we stayed up late, we would miss school tomorrow. And we loved school, so we had no choice but to wait till the morn. We moped up the stairs and went to bed. But before I went to bed, I set an alarm for 6:03 am (I hadn’t learned how to work the new alarm clock from Ikea) and went to sleep. 
I woke up the second my alarm started beeping and slapped the off-button with all of my force. I got dressed almost instantaneously and the chocolate cake was mine.
Or so I thought.
At the top of the stairs was my brother. He had heard the alarm and woke up when I did but hadn’t taken the time to get dressed.
There was a solid five seconds of pure silence.
The tension in the air between us was palpable. A second later and all of the cake would have been devoured by my brother, because he started sprinting down the stairs, with me following suit. This felt like a high-speed battle to the death because I overtook him, looked back and he was in front of me. I skidded past the fridge, but my brother hadn’t, because bare feet have more traction than socks, especially on the wooden floor downstairs. He snatched the box and I slapped it out of his hands, slammed the fridge closed and bent over and picked up the cake, soon for him to yank it out of my hands and slam it down onto the kitchen counter and opened the box. The sight of the cake, a real cake, was beautiful. We stared at it in awe, then remembered what we were fighting for. I grabbed the small doily that the cake was resting on and took a big chunk of the cake with my fist and shoved it into my mouth. I could see the beams of pure sunlight and angels surrounding me. My brother collapsed in defeat and I tried to enjoy the chocolaty glory that I had been waiting for hours now, and it really didn’t taste that good. I shrugged, began to make myself some cereal and gave the rest of the cake to my brother.
Based on a true story
 

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