One day when I was a kid, we were invited over to the house of our neighbours for a birthday party. Like us, they were a family of four, and though the kids were a little older than my brother and I, we often played together. It was one of their parents’ birthdays so it was a fairly normal sort of playdate for us… except for the fact that we were being allowed to stay up way past our bedtime. I distinctly remember that experiencing 7 or 8pm as a sheltered 5 or 6 year old that night was very exciting, let me tell you.
I distinctly remember the occasion for another reason, too: it was the first time I heard about a dessert called “cheesecake”.
In my mind, that meant the adults were about to eat a wheel of cheese (likely cheddar) covered in cake frosting.
I was appalled.
And worse, my mother was downright delighted that they were having cheesecake to celebrate the neighbour’s birthday.
The horror!
I bring this up, because even though I grew older and learned that cheesecake was a delicate, sweet dessert and not a literal wheel of hard cheese covered in frosting, I had never been able to get over the mental block of revulsion that had sprung up at my first encounter of the concept.
Until this week, smack-dab in my thirties.
I finally gave in and purchased a small matcha cheesecake from a Japanese bakery downtown.
Voilà.
Verdict: it was… alright.
I wish I could say something less anticlimactic than that. It was okay. My taste buds didn’t revolt. I’m sure this was an exceptional cheesecake that I was just too uncultured to fully appreciate. It tasted nice. It was fluffy.
Here is unrelated photo of a cute dog statue in a shop window to alleviate the awkwardness of this blog entry:
(/ω＼*)