" Camille's eyes fluttered and then closed. The cake was warm and her fork went down again. "Oh," she said quietly.
There was a time I cared: a meat, a vegetable, a starch, some cake. Life had an order, but now the point only seemed to be eating. Here was my daughter, eating, devouring, she was almost through with the cake.
"Did you make this with honey?" Camille asked. There was something in her voice I nearly recognized. It sounded like interest, kindness.
"I did."
"Because sometimes-" She couldn't finish her sentence without stopping for another bite. "You use brown sugar?"
"It's another recipe."
"I like the honey."
"The problems they're having with bees these days," Sam began, but I held up my hand and it silenced him. There was too much pleasure in the moment to hear about the plight of the bees.
My mother took a long, last sip of her drink and then went to the counter to get the cake, the knife, and three more plates. "First the two of you are having a drink on a Tuesday, now we're all eating cake before we finish our dinner." She cut four pieces and gave the first one to Camille, whose plate was empty.
"It's madness. Anarchy. It must make you wonder what's coming next," Sam said.
My mother handed me my plate. I don't eat that much cake, but I never turn down a slice.
The four of us ate, pretending it was a salad course. Camille was right to pick up on the honey. It was the undertone, the melody of the cake. It was not cloying or overly sweet but it lingered on the tongue after the bite had been swallowed. I didn't miss the frosting at all, though it would have been cream cheese. I could beat cream cheese longer than most people would have thought possible. I could beat it until it could pass for meringue. "

― Jeanne Ray , Eat Cake