So much custard so little time. I keep wanting gold epaulets to magically appear,eagles and his embroidered bee slippers. I have seen artifacts of Napoleon's. They still seem to shiver and vibrate, history trapped within. Milles feuilles it is called, mille foglia in Italy. A thousand sheets. Crisp and creme. Restrained in its richness, but elegantly turned out. I can hear the crinkle of watered silks. The rustle of skirts. A jeweler showing a parure to go with the gown. Those mother of pearl combs running through her hair. And he is off in his wing looking at maps, plans swirling in his head. There's a pause, he picks up his plate, a gold fork, takes a bite. Yumm. He looks again at a map as he enjoys the creme and says," Tell me, what is this place called Waterloo?" The sun had not yet hidden, he scraped the crumbs from his plate. A dribble of custard stuck to the fork. More he thought. He always wanted more. ME too, as I put my fork down. And cleaned my brushes. Ahh. What cake shall I go after next?