Have you never bewitched a cake before?

Day 6 of the Holiday Log

"It was a mess, right from the start," I say solemnly.
The elderly lady nods but doesn't look up from her knitting. She would know, I think suddenly. She has been to places, far off lands, has been entangled and bewitched, and probably, most likely, to be fair, has even had her heart ripped out of her chest and stomped on like a curled up Autumn leaf. I feel my shoulders sag with instant relief.
"Her obsession was, absolutely, pants."
She nods again.
"Black pants," I say.
The thick pink needles click in timely rhythm with her nodding.
"With golden trim," and I lean forward to press my point further into her personal sphere.
"Yes dear," she replies at last, attention still caught by her knitting, "you've told me this not ten minutes ago."
"Well!" I slump back against the park bench and frown at the dogs trotting by. "It's news! Isn't it!"
"Mmm."
"It's outrageous that someone could fancy so many of the one thing!"
"Well pants do come in all shapes and sizes, you know. Why, I can remember..."
I feel let down. There had been high hopes for this conversation. The light fizzing around us like sparks from a firework that held promise of awe and admiration, of suspense, time well spent, of delight and comedy. Why, even romance! There had been a bit of that. There had been heartbreak as well, of course, due to the natural order of things; inevitable and heavy like an indestructible iron fist. But most of the tale was surrounded in magic. The kind of magic that lights up your eyes, plays havoc with your heart, and makes you gasp.
"I said, 'dear, are you going over to buy lunch today? Or shall I?'"
The lady is looking at me finally. She has eyes the colour of bright purple and silver hair as wispy as fairy floss. I confess, there have been tempting times where I held a great deal of restraint not to pluck a patch and taste it. I believe that is why she now wears it wrapped tightly in a bun, although we have never had the conversation so I cannot assume this reason. Perhaps her head is prone to getting cold.
"Egg on rye?" I ask.
She gives me the winky grin and says, "Ooooooh, you know what a woman likes!"
I say, "Madam, I believe I do."
And I make a quick exit before she has a chance to ask exactly what I mean.