I ask Adil what his favourite colour is. He points to his trousers and T-shirt and says, “Green and Red.” Obviously. Then he says, “And I also like black and white, although these are not real colours.” Adil is five.
We’re sitting on the floor of his room between scattered books and toys and Adil names all the planets and explains their specific traits to me, how far they are away from earth, and he does it three times in a row, just to make sure I got it right. Then he goes on to elaborate on the fact that there are even more planets than the ones he told me about, as there are more galaxies than the one, we’re living in.
His lecture is abruptly interrupted by his mum calling us into the living room for dinner. During dinner the so-called adults talk about architecture, history, politics and the like, while Adil is imagining what it would be like to eat and drink certain – for adults unimaginable – things, like cloud soup and string salad. His mum scolds him when he starts fantasising about food related to pee and poopoo. My adult inner self wrinkles its nose, my inner child laughs a little bit.
Adil is sent to his room when he can’t sit still anymore and the adults’ discussion about architecture, history, politics, and the like is not finished yet. He comes back every twenty minutes and laments about us eating for hours.
I decide to join him in his room between toys, books, and scattered fantasies again, as they seem more intriguing than architecture and politics right now.
So, there I am again, on the carpet, staring at a white wall that has planets sticked to it in the exact correct order and distance. Adil and I cook cloud soup and prepare string salad, talk about favourite colours and tastes. He always comes up with a new impossible recipe and laughs at his owns ideas wholeheartedly and I have to laugh as well.
My heart gets heavy and my chest clamps suddenly, I long for his innocence, his free roaming ideas without limits, without restrictions set by society.
Adil is five, he still needs to learn a lot to survive in this society. But for now, I feel like I’m the one learning more on a children’s carpet between scattered books and toys than sitting at a table with adults. I feel a mixture of nostalgia – as I remember that once we all have had this glorious fantasy, this unimaginable imagination and I wonder where and when that has been buried – and a deep sadness, as I have the inkling that one day, Adil will also have lost or buried most of this, too.
As I feel tears rising, Adil’s new recipe is planet spaghettis with galaxy sauce. So, I swallow the rising tears and try to stop my voice from shivering and ask him what a galaxy might taste like. His instant answer: Like cake. “Which cake?”, I ask. He ponders for what feels like an eternity, so I try to help him with suggestions. “Do you think it’s more like a vanilla cake or rather chocolate?” He says, “Vanilla.”, so I ask “Anything else? Maybe some fruit? Strawberries or blueberries or bananas?” He says, “Blueberries.” I sum it up, “So, you say a galaxy tastes like vanilla-blueberry-cake?” “No!”, he exclaims. “It’s a vanilla cake with cream and blueberries on top!” I apologise for getting it wrong and repeat exactly what he said, just to make sure I got it right. He nods in satisfaction. Finally, the adult one got it.
“And what does a planet taste like?”, I ask. He looks at the ceiling very concentrated for a minute, then replies “Like cold air. No, no. Like hot air!” So, I try a summary again: “So, a planet tastes like hot air and a galaxy like vanilla cake with cream and blueberries on top, is that correct?” “Yes!”, he says and adds, “and like cold air.”
I stare at the wall that has all the planets plastered on it and the white wall they are sticked to becomes broader, wider. I imagine seeing galaxies and tasting vanilla-blueberry-cake.
My chest is still clamping, but I smile, for Adil. Because what if, just what if he was right?
What if planets tasted like hot air and galaxies like vanilla cake with cream and blueberries on top? Oh, and cold air of course.
© Gina Laventura, 2025
dedicated to T. and his parents
gina laventura 
One response to “What if galaxies tasted like blueberry cake?”
This piece made the memories come rushing back from when my own daughter was five. I miss those days so much–her imagination was pure delight and the stories never stopped. She had all her bath toys named–names she invented, and they had a little house they lived in together when they were dried and put away. They’d climb out of the toy basket to get home, she said. Not only that, she would speak “their language”–something I never could figure out! That innocence, confidence, wonderful imagination–at least I wrote it all down and still peruse her baby journal from time to time. Thank you for this story about Adil. He and my daughter would have spun stories together and been the best of friends, I’m sure.
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