The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake

“On the eve of her ninth birthday, unassuming Rose Edelstein, a girl at the periphery of schoolyard games and her distracted parents’ attention, bites into her mother’s homemade lemon-chocolate cake and discovers she has a magical gift: she can taste her mother’s emotions in the cake.”

Free time on hands people?

Go to the nearest bookstore and get “The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake” by Aimee Bender.

As stressed as I am about my finals and whatnots, diving head first into my studies just doesn’t seem like the best pastime, SO

Long story short I was browsing the internet when I came across its review. If you’ve not read it yet it’s a must. Although I have to be honest I didn’t understand the ending at first (No spoilers), but it’s beautifully written and will keep you interested. The author will leave you hanging on to every sentence as you unravel the pages of this girl’s strange life.

And yo, it’s a New York Times Bestseller!

Here’s the link

And a part I liked:

” I grabbed George’s hand. Right away: fingers, holding back. The sun. More clustery vines of bougainvillea draping over windows in bulges of dark pink. His warm palm. An orange tabby lounging on the sidewalk. People in torn black T-shirts sitting and smoking on steps. The city, opening up.

We hit the sidewalk, and dropped his hands. How I wished, right then, that the whole world was a street” P.67

GAAAH, indeed, the awesomeness of that paragraph is beyond awesome IF THAT IS EVEN POSSIBLE.

Tell me what you think.



Éclair aux Fraises please

It was right there, at that moment in front of the glass shield where I pointed “Éclair aux Fraises please”

Regardless of the overwhelming smell of freshly baked bread, I was only thinking about biting into that éclair.

Flash forward to 10:30 pm : home, jammies on, and my stomach couldn’t help the excitement of knowing what’s coming for it.

As I carefully put my éclair on my blue tea-cup plate, I examine it for a little while, then without hesitation, bite in.

The strawberries are falling over, custard is dripping down and the powdered sugar is covering my fingers.

It’s almost depressing to see something so beautiful turn into such a horrid mess.

It didn’t even resemble anything I had wanted to eat; it just looked like a messy bun of colors that didn’t match.

I’m interrupted as my neighbor knocks on the door to ironically offer me a piece of “Forêt Noire” on behalf of his friend’s birthday.

“What’s that on your nose?” he says.

I thank him for the cake and wash the traces of crime and powdered sugar off my face, then go back to bed.

No more éclair for today.