There is always food on our plates, but no one ever wants to eat it. But when everyone craves food, there is no food. And somewhere in the background, there is piano music playing, drowning out arguing that there is no food on our plates. But then there was I, who instead of complaining about the food, stared out into the asphalt road. Rose petals fell from a rose. As the petals fall I contemplate my childhood. The rain starts to pour outside, a thunderstorm I thought. I wondered why my father always secluded himself from our family, why he always cut himself off from us. I wanted food, but I barely understood that food was in low supply during my childhood. But food isn't scarce in the mornings, when my mother took me to a Swedish bakery across the street. The cakes there glowed, and these bright cakes were displayed like jewelry. I dreamed about these cakes as slept on an empty stomach. These cakes nourished me in my dreams, filling an unsaturated reservoir. I thought of how delicious they were, and how they made my families food pale in comparison. I wanted that dream baker to prepare me food to feed my unconscious hunger. This unconscious hunger led me towards the bakery, in my underwear. I crossed the street in the rain, half naked, and cold but possessing an eager fire to consume the cake. I nearly finished the whole cake, before my father interrupted came in only to ask me why I hadn't left any for him. He told me that mother didn’t make dinner today.