Claude could not sleep. No, he could not.
Drip, drip, drip went the sound. Beside him, Marie slept. Claude felt betrayed.
Drip, drip, drip. Each (drip) sound (drip) felt like (drip) a bullet in his eye (drip DRIP). He grabbed the covers in one hand and tossed them aside, grumbling as he walked.
Along the way, he picked up his slippers and his robe. He pulled down the sides of his nightcap until the soft fabric covered his ears. He shushed the dog who lifted his head.
Claude walked across the room and peered at the pipes. Drip drip drip. He was getting closer. He felt his teeth come together and grind down as his slippers turned cold. The floor was wet. The cold ran up his bare legs like a shock.
He brought his face very close to the pipe and wished he had brought the lamp. Then, he stopped. He sniffed. Drip drip drip. The air smelled sweet, like when Marie made caramels on the stove. The smell made him stop, made the drips fade. For a moment, Claude relaxed. He breathed in the smell of sugar, of sticky delight.
He felt a drop on his nose. The wetness dripped down over his cheek and onto his tongue. Sweetness. Butter. Claude’s eyes widened.
He cast his gaze on the ceiling, following the drop and its silk-like thread. Butter. Unmistakeable. Sugar. A bite of salt. Another fell on his tongue, then another and another. Claude stared at the ceiling in wonder, at the rain that fell there.You guys, listen. Nicole says this is one of the best desserts she’s ever had. Maybe we should listen to her.
This dessert is crazy rich and comes with some crazy street cred (from Momofuku Milk Bar goddess Christina Tosi’s Grandma Rosemary. Thank you, Gilt Taste, for delivering such information to us. We love you.) Ours is drippier and ooyier to mimic your drool.
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