Words Arwa H.
Digital Art Maria Y.
Malt used to mean something different. A drink from the Murree Brewery, peach and strawberry being the most sublime of them all.
Malt came to mean Milo. That grainy, chocolate-y powder that was supposed to be mixed in milk yet tasted much better on its own. Sneaking a spoonful when Amma wasn’t looking; that sticky hardened glob which used to stick to the spoon as evidence.
Malt soon came to mean cake. The first cake perfectly mastered, the luscious melt-in-your-mouth treat reserved for birthdays. The effort to make it was too much for normal days, but it was a staple for others.
The first time was messy and hard, making it for the other (not better) half. The oven burst. But the cake was still perfect, with delicious icing and chocolate chips as an added bonus.
The second time was for the second birthday. Took two days this time to do it perfectly. The top half slipped during frosting. And my heart broke a little. But you cared little. For you were two and it was cake!
The third time’s the charm as they say. It was the third birthday. And it was perfect. The icing was smooth. The sprinkles made in the shape of the number three on top just as I wanted. And you refused to cut the cake. Just plain NO. Threenagers!
Malt is no longer just malt. It’s so much more. Maybe next year when you’re four?
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