Sad for Soured Mousse

I will not post the anti-IG-ish picture here. What happened was we had this mousse-cake thing, which was by the way delicious, enough for about eight to sixteen people (or more, since we are a sharing bunch). There were five of us; only three ate. I think I ate for four persons already—yeah, mostly for the reason that that sweet, yummy thing would soon go to waste if not consumed soon. We don't have a fridge in the house. The reasons are many, and I might/might not just write about the mundanity that is that.

Thoughts of sharing to the world did occur, of course, the humanitarians that we are. But how. It's mousse. And yes, we even point fingers on who will go down to throw the trash, who then among us would think of voluntarily scouring the city streets looking for someone who'd gladly accept leftover dessert. We can't divide the damn (and now it's almost as if it's unwanted, after the many mouthfuls of goodness) thing and distribute them; it's too fragile. The reason of it being still fluffy only that it had arrived in the house at night, amid the rain, creating a cool-enough environment for it to hold itself for a while.

Here's a few missing details to fill in the gaps of this story. We live on the sixth floor of an apartment building without an elevator. You would think after more than a year of this I would have conquered the climb, so to speak. Oh no. It isn't easier now. There is a technique, though, but that might be told another day. Another image to add to the mousse would be sandwiches, cinnamon buns, fruits, empanadas, and meat—which could have easily fed ten to fullness. The mousse alone would have been surmountable, but with the rest with it, food wins this time.

And so we come to the part I've been dreading. The morning when those that didn't survive the microorganisms and time have to be thrown out. Maybe we are a lazy bunch indeed. I could only give a childish wish for something to be invented that would bring one person's excess food to another who needs it badly. Apparently my legs are not working at this time.

I looked at the mousse. It had flattened somewhat. The air making it foamy had escaped overnight. I took a spoon and braved a bite. It wasn't spoiled yet, but I could tell that just a few minutes more would completely ruin it already. The thought of quickly stuffing as much mousse as I can into my mouth did occur to me, but the memory of its taste the night before was still fresh in my mind. I couldn't let go of that. And it was all the help I needed to let go of the once-delectable fluff that now resembled a failed (or successful, depending on your weltanschauung) science experiment.

Into the trash you go, and hooray for our resident ants (although I'm not really sure they'd still be attracted to its sourness).