Short story: A Piece of Sweet Cake, by Shariff Burke

2026-03-27 - 17:04

It was late in the morning and it seemed like the TV’s drone alone would bring the day to pass. The house had been reset and the kids lolled among a stack of clothes fresh from the dryer. Soft grey silence. There was nothing better to do in Broadmeadows. “Mama, can we have a Happy Meal today?” “Cheeseburger Happy Meal,” chirped the younger one, piling on his sister. * Zakia looked up at the rearview mirror before she pulled out of the driveway. It didn’t take much cajoling from them for her to give in. Both kids sat properly in their car seats with combed hair and wool corduroys. She smiled, resting her gaze on them in the back. In this world, those two were her bolt and lock. The car zipped past side streets and through two roundabouts. It had only been a week, and so the unnerving eruption of Mt Ruapehu was the only thing the radio spoke of—thankfully no one was killed. She didn’t see anyone out in their front gardens, the scene static except for the stream of clouds churning above. All they need is a quick paint job, she thought, eyeing a row of houses. It would look so much better. She entertained thoughts of veering off unexpectedly at the next turn. If she focused hard enough, she could find herself on the road home to her mother’s house: a tree-shaded path lined with perfectly spaced tembusu, bird’s nest ferns between their branches. Just five more trees, a few more breaths and a final turn around the bend, and she would be home. Her sisters would be standing by that intricate, black iron gate in the balmy afternoon light, waiting for her in their loose kaftans, ready to knead her stiff neck, talk without filter, and eat sweet cake. * It’s amazing what a red paper box can do to children. The kids unravelled their Happy Meals and celebrated the plastic toys wrapped in more plastic. Zakia registered the distinct squealing noises they made just for these occasions as she stared at the sheen of moisture wearing off the brown, tiled floor of Johnsonville Maccas. It was just before the typical midweek lunch rush and most of the tables were still vacant. The yells from behind the counter began to go up a notch. They had a strangely calming effect on her. A retiree in a polar fleece vest was hunched by the windows with a stack of newspapers, highlighting lines as she read along under her breath. A group of children conquered the play area in the distance, their screams trapped behind glass. Zakia laid out the burgers and chips on the trays. “Go on, what are you waiting for, it’s going cold,” she said. She pulled a single chip out for herself. The kids put the toys aside and unwrapped the cheeseburgers. “Does mine have pickles in it?” Thomas’s voice was hesitant, as if afraid. “Yes ... because pickles are the best,” Sophie replied, leaning in. Zakia peeled the top bun off the cheeseburger, pulled the pickle off and handed it to Sophie. “Two for me, none for you,” Sophie taunted. The boy’s shoulders heaved as he looked at his mother for support. “It’s okay, Thomas; one day you’ll realise.” She was certain of the inevitability of this wisdom. Sophie held the burger up and brought her face towards it. Her lips pressed gently into the bun but her mouth remained closed. She held it there in some kind of stupor. Zakia looked on, stifling her laughter. “Do you want to kiss it first?” Sophie’s eyes met hers over the gentle convex of the bun. ‘This cheeseburger is my baby now. Soft and smooth, just like when Thomas was a baby.’ Sophie began to stroke the cheeseburger like a sleeping neonate. “You can eat it too, you know.” Zakia laughed. Thomas sat his cheeseburger, with its visible bite mark, back down on the tray. He put his cheek to it. “Sophie, look, I’m sleeping now, don’t wake me please,” he said, peeping his eyes open, head resting on the burger. “I found a soft yum-me pillow.” Sophie copied him, putting her cheeseburger down and nestling her cheek into it like a plush pillow. The kids faced each other, feigning sleep, occasionally reaching their tongues out as if to taste the buns. Zakia felt no compulsion to get them to eat. The food would be finished eventually, because it was Maccas. As her kids pretended to be sleepy lions, she wondered where they learnt this obtuse sense of humour. She sighed a little more. * Last night, completely on a whim, Zakia made marmite chicken for tea. Inspiration struck her as she stared into the pantry, unable to bear the thought of another one of those dreadful Women’s Weekly recipes she’d been advised to cut out and save. In a deep-rimmed saucepan, she stirred honey on a low flame into an emulsification of butter, garlic, and marmite. Stoking the pan over and over with drips of soy and Worcestershire sauce until the beginnings of hot wax emerged. She dipped her pinky in and tasted as she went, adjusting and refining from memory alone. A deep grin emerged as the flavour lingered in her mouth. Those sticky nights sitting outside Keng Eng Kee Zi Char restaurant on red plastic chairs by a block of flats, while steaming dishes were rushed out onto the table, some with wooden pegs still attached. It was past nine and Sam had yet to return. Her focus was entirely caught up on the dark lick of grease that had pooled over the plate. Zakia covered his plate in glad wrap and stuck it in the back of the fridge. No call or warning. No response on the office line. No sense that her dependence had any weight. “What pushed your buttons?” Sam said as he finally entered the bedroom, close to midnight. He flicked on the bedside lamp, expecting Zakia to respond. “Thought you were making schnitzel tonight.” Drowsy, Zakia lifted her head. She could tell he was disappointed with the dinner. The stench of cigarettes and god knows what else was overwhelming. She pulled the pillow from his side of the bed and flung it in his direction. “Ohh easy now.” Zakia ignored him. The stir of childish pleasure in his voice grated at her, but she knew there was no point in being drawn into another fight. Would he ever know that the boiled peas and roast potatoes were made just for him? “Brush your teeth at least, before you come in.” “How about we sleep top and tail, then?” Sam snapped, taking offence at her suggestion and setting the pillow from the floor up on the far end of bed. “I’ve been out working late for all of us.” * The kids rushed into the play area after finishing their burgers, as if revitalised from their fake nap. Zakia stood close to the play area, keeping one eye on them from the edge of the room where rows of magazines were stacked. She didn’t open them. She’d had enough of the diatribes against Diana. How could someone with such innate self-possession, liveliness and goodness be turned into a dour villain? She scoffed at the insistence of those rags. Surely if the rumours about Prince Charles were true, that would mean the end of him, not her? She glanced around at the other parents and began to unfurl their lives similarly in her mind. “Rawinia!” A woman called out towards the ballpit. “Raaaaah.” A girl in the ballpit, about Thomas’s age, was drawn to the voice. The woman’s face was vivid, with a langsat complexion and shiny, lustrous cat eyes. Zakia strained her ears to pick out the woman’s voice. It was distinct from anything she was used to hearing here. A portal opened outward and balmy air latched to her skin. She crossed the play area, the plastic flooring firm beneath her feet. “Hi-ya, I’m Zakia. My kids were playing with your lovely girl?” She smiled a big, real smile. “Oh, I’m Nabilah. Gorgeous kids you have.” Nabilah was wearing a long cotton skirt and a tight tangerine skivvy with the sleeves pulled up to her elbows. They looked at each other, interested. “You pun Melayu ke?” Nabilah asked. “Yah, Melayu Singapore.” “Astaghfirullah, ya ampun. What are the chances?” Zakia learned that Nabilah had given up her life as a journalist back home six years ago to start anew with her partner in New Zealand. They were pen pals for a long time beforehand. “Our parents knew each other from way back; they were all concert musicians. We met once as teens during a group dinner, then we started writing after that. We were cute! Eventually, he visited me there, and I visited him here, and now here we are!” Nabilah threw hands in the air, seemingly astounded by such fate. Rawinia looked like her mother, Zakia thought. “So your husband is Māori?” “Yaah, he’s Ngāti Toa.” Zakia didn’t know what Ngāti Toa meant, but she didn’t ask. Her eyes scanned the pounamu strung from Nabilah’s neck and then leapt back up to her face. Behind her, she could see her kids climbing up the slide as others tried to slide down. “Now, how did you end up here, Zakia?” “In McDonald’s Johnsonville?” They laughed. “Well, it’s been nine years for me. I came here as a student and met Sam, my husband, at uni. We had Sophie, we got married, and I never finished that interior design degree.” This was a well-rehearsed line, one she had ready to reel off at the grocery checkout, bank, or park. She’d repeated it enough times now it almost felt scripted. But as it rolled off her tongue, she noticed how it felt different this time, not forced out. She shrugged off the thought and asked Nabilah, “Dah makan?” * They ordered coffees and a Happy Meal for Rawinia. Zakia was about to order an apple pie when Nabilah stopped her. “Just you wait Kak, I’ve brought just the thing.” The restaurant was quiet again as they settled in. Sophie and Thomas took out their toys from earlier and compared them with Rawinia’s. Nabilah reached into the lower pocket of her bag and pulled out a parcel wrapped in foil. Zakia paused, a small light gathering in her as Nabilah unravelled the parcel, giving an almost mischievous look as she finally laid it on the table. “Kuih Lapis?!” Zakia shrieked, jolting upright with her palms clasped together. Sophie looked up, startled by the noise and her mother’s flushed face. The two women stared at the cake, admiring the distinct layers of luminous colour. Zakia could feel Nabilah’s smile on her and smiled back. “Yah, Ra and Te Rangi love it. I make it every other week.” “Ohh?” Zakia asked. “They both can eat this?” “Why not?” Nabilah responded, missing the real question. * The year before, Zakia had attempted to get Sam and the kids to be more adventurous at dinnertime by dabbling in Japanese food. She made grilled salmon and potato miso soup and sprinkled furikake over rice. She made a game out of rolling california rolls, all the while hoping that cultivating a love of a new cuisine might serve as a gateway to toothier flavours, building a bridge that would eventually connect home. It hadn’t quite worked, or at least it hadn’t worked yet—a small mound of sambal sat on the edge of her plate, in a way that laid bare her isolation. Maybe as they get older, she reasoned with herself, refusing to look for any other explanation. If her food needs were to go unmet, it was because she was trading it for something better. * The cake glided down Zakia’s throat. Its sweetness bore deep till it reached her stomach. Nabilah sliced the cake into smaller pieces and explained how the kids could eat it in one bite with a mouthful of colours, or peel off the layers and relish each colour on its own. “Each colour tastes different,” Nabilah said, giving Zakia a sly look. Sophie and Thomas began frantically undoing the layers, lowering each strip into their mouths until their cheeks were full. “I like the purple one,” Rawinia said, putting aside the Happy Meal and joining in. “Mama, can we make this at home?” Sophie asked. “We will have to ask Aunty Nabilah to show us first.” * The kids returned to the play area and Zakia and Nabilah spoke easily for the next two hours. It turned out that a clock’s hands move faster when you don’t need them to. * “I’ll get a few Filet o’ Fish for later,” Nabilah said. “Dinner tonight?” “You know Kak, bila makan Filet o’ Fish kan, we add a piece of kina to it.” “Kina?” “You know that spikey-spikey siput sea urchin. I don’t know the Malay name.” “Ohh... landak laut!” “Yah, landak laut, Well, at home, we add a few pieces of kina inside the burger. I don’t know Kak, it just adds this lovely dimension. Exquisite lah seh.” Even as Zakia asked for more descriptions of the kina between two tartare sauce-covered buns, her mind was already back on the dinner she would cook this evening—chicken pie and broccoli cheese. As Nabilah continued delighting in kina, Zakia wondered about Nabilah’s home life. How Nabilah spoke about Te Rangi in such a brotherly way. How she moved around with such confidence and ease. How she had travelled and found new life in her marriage. “Anyway, enough about kina, I’ll make it for you one day.” Nabilah smiled. She began gathering her things and tucking them into bags. “Thanks sooo much for the Kuih Lapis! It was beautiful! Terkejut aku, that even the kids liked it.” “No worries la Zakia; they’ll be eating rendang and petai in no time. How about we do this again next week, same time? I don’t think I laughed this much in a while, you’re hilarious lah!” “Boleh! I’ll bring marmite chicken for you and Ra to try.” It had been a while since she’d been given a compliment like that. “You brought a splash of colour to my life today too.” “Of course la, we had Kuih Lapis!” Taken with kind permission from the newly published collection of 11 short stories Childish Palate by Shariff Burke (Tender Press, $32) available in selected bookstores nationwide. Tender’s blurbology: “A philosophy student makes a striking proposal to the imam of the Kilbirnie mosque. Flatmates ignite a flame over a bowl of chicken ginseng soup. An office worker finds a sense of purpose in the brightly lit aisles of Thorndon New World...The stories follows a cast of outsiders in Te Whanganui-a-Tara Wellington, searching for hope in a country caught in an identity crisis.”