If there is one thing I have most definitely inherited from my dad, it’s his affinity for all things good and delectable. His gourmandise, if you will.
Mais, jamais de la vie, he mocks.
Oh, yes, this is what gets us caught red-handed, mouths stuffed with keukes (pronounced, cooks), a Belgian pastry of such flaky creaminess, there is simply no proper way of eating it.
Why are we eating them in the street, you ask?
Because my dad’s logic has it that we have only two keukes, not enough to share, and my logic says we can’t just eat them parked in front of my aunt and uncle’s house in Antwerp.
No, that won’t do.
So, we creep up a few homes, and once we decide we’re up just enough, we exit the vehicle for fear of sending crumbs flying all over the pristine upholstery.
We stand in the cold, like two teenagers asking to get busted, and I can barely tear into my apple crumble, I’m giggling so much.
Of course, as luck would have it, the sole vehicle to cross our paths is one that knows us, and it rolls down to a crawl, mysterious, accusatory, fingers pointing, or so, I imagine.
Oh, this is awkward.
The window unrolls to unveil Kei and Olivier, and phewf! we are safe!
Unless they tell.
Which, they won’t.
We dust off the corners of our mouths, erasing the tell-tale sign of powdered sugar, and we creep behind my cousin as if nothing, absolutely nothing, were amiss.