The perfect Sunday

I think of that as I plowed through Grace Park’s kwatros leches, perhaps one of the most perfect treats to ever pass through my lips. It is delicious, this cake soaked in four kinds of milk/cream. Or so I think. I could be wrong. Who knows what secret steps and ingredients are manipulated into this sweet masterpiece. I love it in every way that matters.

As I enjoy each morsel, I am reminded of the many Sundays of my childhood, growing up in Ormoc City. After Sunday morning Mass, Daddy would always stop by this small shop to buy a loaf or two of butter cake. It was this perfect brick — light golden brown on the outside, the golden yellow pillow inside revealed when the knife falls upon it, dense and hefty, with just the right amount of sweetness.

I no longer remember the name of that little shop, as it was one of those that sold a myriad of other things, and neither does Daddy. I am thinking maybe they also ordered it from an independent baker? Anyway. The butter cake was good in that simple, no-nonsense way and I remember thinking many times then that it was perfect by its lonesome, with no add-ons. I would always enjoy it with a big glass of cold full cream milk after every meal. Ahhhhh. The absolute decadence of it all.

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