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Writing inspired by the following Sunday Writers’ Club prompt:

Daffodil Cake

Daffodils have long been a traditional sign of approaching springtime. There is also daffodil cake – bright yellow, light and fluffy, perfect for tea in the garden. Describe a springtime picnic which includes both daffodils and cakes.

Daffodil Cake

by Georgia Holmer

Eat the flowers, he said.

What?!

She instinctively stepped further away from him. They were standing on a small flagstone pathway in the middle of the garden. Her garden. A small outdoor space she had meticulously cultivated and groomed. Now – this week – was its glorious peak. A few short days in late April when the daffodils were still proud, the forsythia and azalea still clinging on, the magnolias unfurling, and the first tulips revealing their inner hues. It was a spectacular celebration of spring, and she had plotted and planted carefully to orchestrate this colorful climax.

She had decided, with some ambivalence, to invite her ex-boyfriend to see it. They were trying to reach a détente, a calmer and gentler rapport, and she thought beauty would help. Or maybe she just wanted to show him what she could create. He had come directly from his most recent book signing, leather jacket and sunglasses jarring in the softness of the garden.

She felt a drop of rain on her head and looked up at the sky worried. A sprinkle was good, but a strong thunderstorm would crush it all.

She turned to him. Should we go inside?

I’m serious. He was staring at a cluster of daffodils. You can eat those.

Are you being funny? She scanned his handsome profile.

He turned to look at her, his face devoid of any irony or humor.

May I? He headed towards the daffodils.

Wait! No!

Without hesitation he reached down, grabbed a cluster by the stems and yanked them out of the ground as if they were weeds.

Stop! She grabbed his arm, the one holding the daffodils, and dirt from the roots sprayed over them both. You can’t just pull those out.

It’s a ritual spring food. He seemed untouched by her distress. In some countries they make daffodil cake to celebrate the arrival of spring. To let you become one with the process of rebirth in the natural world.

What countries?

Austria, I think.

Aren’t they poisonous? She shook her head, wondering why she was even discussing this.

Those are mine. She reached to take the daffodils from him thinking she could trim them, save the bulbs and at least put the blossoms in a vase on her kitchen windowsill for a few days.

He tugged his arm back, clutching the flowers to his chest.

They are not yours. You can’t own nature.

They stared at each other for a moment, eyes wide. The anger on both their faces, undulating and visible.

He shoved one of the blossoms in his mouth, ripped it savagely from the stem with his teeth, and began chewing.