Dear red velvet,
ONCE upon a time, this letter would have been addressed to a coloured fabric.
These days, that cannot be assumed. Somewhere along the line, you became a flavour. How did that happen? And exactly what flavour are you, red velvet?
From personal experience, you don’t taste like the interior trim of a 1980s VB Commodore - which is what I automatically associate red velvet with.
Actually, that was probably velour, but “red velour” doesn’t have as much attraction as a flavour.
You have been the flavour of the month for a few years now.
You have infiltrated nearly all desserts and niceties. There are red velvet cakes, cup cakes, sponges, cheesecakes, pancakes, crepes, popcorn and even Tim Tams.
The ingredient list on the famous biscuits mentioned don’t provide much help as to what you are. The word “flavour” is simply placed in there between baking powder and antioxidants.
It’s curious that the cooking world has become consumed by you, as it ironically, consumes you.
Perhaps the vague terms in which you are uttered allow for a diverse scope of interpretation. Some could interpret you as simply raspberry; others may say you are more a soft chocolate.
At one stage in the past, someone might have declared they are going to pull on a red velvet skirt.
Nowadays, it’s more likely someone is warning you that you’ve “spilt red velvet” on your skirt.
When it comes to describing a taste, no one much says: “Hmm, that’s got a hint of red velvet in”.
Will you transcend even taste? Will you go on to become an aroma? A sound effect? A band title? A concept?
Right now there is probably someone naming a town after you.
I hate to bring this up, but should you popularity ever wane, what then? What will be the next flavour sensation?
My suggestion would be to just rename a known flavour. So liquorice all of sudden could become dark suede. Or peppermint becomes tranquil polyester. Or oregano becomes neoprene zing.
For now though, I look forward to my next culinary encounter with your good self.