This takes the cake ...

Allow me to set up the scene ... leftover strawberry shortcake sits on a plate, covered in plastic wrap, on a shelf in my fridge. Cake is coated with an inch-thick layer of whipped cream and giant red, ripe strawberries.

In shuffles Nonno, as it is close to lunch time. I see him open the fridge, reach in and begin to hear the familiar sound of lip-smacking, which to me is like nails on a chalkboard. I leave the house in disgust.

Later, I go to open the fridge. My hand feels something crusty on the handle. There is red, sticky, dried strawberry glaze and whipped cream covering it. Inside, a pastry case crime scene. The plastic wrap has been torn away from the cake and left open, revealing a huge gaping void in the center of the layer cake. Pieces of vanilla pound are scattered everywhere, crumbs of cake matter lying lifeless atop soda cans. The trail of terror continues as I discover crumbs leading to the sink, where the entire faucet head and handles are also smeared with berry glaze and whipped cream, now dry and beginning to yellow. More morsels of the cake killer's victim clog the drain.

I stare at the carnage in disbelief. Grabbing a fistful of cake is something I didn't think anyone would ever do, unless they were 1) a neanderthal or 2) really stoned. I guess I can add "eighty three years old and clueless" to the list.