The Dessert Ar-mu of the Damned

They came on, through the night, like scorched Crème Brûlée. The zest they had for each other was parallel only to what we know of the Spartans. They were hungry for revenge, normally served sweet and cold, but they were bubbling and sizzling through and through. Their Laitiers la Reine had been ravaged that night, and the Trinity of Ramekins, the Ar-mu of the Damned,  were ready for a flambéing.

Trine One was made up of the sour, the twisted, the doughy and the unleavened in battle. They were the vanguard, leading  the way into the poppy fields, the Crispies and the Cremes, units of destruction with Butane Torches and wry verve.  Trine Two were the center, the glue that held it all together. They were the White Knights of legend, the stalwarts and unyielding, and they were every maiden’s sweet tooth. Trine Three, the Salamanders. Hunting for prey, they were caramelized under the sun, hardened and ready for bear claws! They gnashed and gnawed at the command leashes, held in abeyance for the final course.

Captain Pierre “Petite” Gâteaux, of Trine Three, viewed his charges with slight disdain. Beneath him in so many ways, so he felt, he bristled at the thought of desecration that occurred that very evening. Madame Charlotte Russe, la Reine, with the most delicate ladies fingers he had ever seen, which struck him to the marrow, had been swept up in the Mélange la Pâtisserie, and the stories of her devouring was already part of instant legend. Capt. Gâteaux quietly wept for his Queen as his hands clenched his fists in disgust and exquisite anger.

It was time. The horn sounded.

The rushing to the front, The failure of the rear,

Like fire from an oven grate,

A blast, a blast

The sound of grating pealed out.

A thousand-thousand sprinkled the top layer

Multi-Hued and Browns

All perished, all crumbled into naught

All crumbled into naught

All brittle went they, to the end

The sweetness they exuded was gone

Was gone

A snow fell, like a powdered sugary swell

And covered them all,

And there they dwell.

 

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This is dedicated to Lisa Vooght.

 

Just being silly, after a silly misspelling on my part and then a stupid “smartphone” message. Just a trifle, a petit fours, a bon bon, if not some bon mots, done with panache and eclaritain means, truly the icing on the cake. Hmmm…did I do enough pastry punning?