Trifle. It is the bane of my existence. The creamy, custardy, jelly, spongy mess that it is. I. HATE. IT.
It also happens to be my families number one Christmas Day desert. As it's my mothers signature desert (or in other words the only desert she can make that is enough to feed ten people), it's made EVERY. SINGLE. YEAR. For as long as i can remember it has been served after Christmas dinner.
Sure it's cute to have ten people squashed around a six person table, all laughing and eating and finally being able to have a conversation with a sibling you haven't seen for weeks. Dinner is served. Crackers are pulled. And then it happens. The one part of the meal I dread. Desert. I always get my hopes up that my mother has gone all out and made a victoria sponge, but no, she's gone and made a fricking trifle.
Now my first world problem would seem petty or silly, that out of ten people, I am the only one who refuses to eat the slimy, pink and yellow monster that inhabits all of our nice bowls. However, I am not the only person who feels this way. Both my father and brother think trifle is an abomination to mankind. Does my mother take their "delicate" palate into consideration? Of course she does!. Both recieve cute little singular deserts that she had made the night before, however there is ever only enough for two. Does my mother take my hatred for the gloop into consideration? Not a chance. A large helping is served to me and before I can tell of my distaste, one of my siblings has taken it from my clutches and scoffed it down, leaving me to sit at the table eating a box of pringles and a box of roses all to myself.
Every year I hope my mother notices my dislike for the desert and makes me a cute little singular desert. And every year I hope she will finally understand, the fact is. I. HATE. TRIFLE!!