Yes, you read that right. Flan Fiction or Fiction about Flan.

In my attempts to say the word, flash fiction, this week, twice I said “Flan Fiction.” My friend Rachael and I decided that since I kept saying “Flan Fiction” then I should probably write some. So, here you go. Written at 1 in the morning because I just couldn’t get the idea of Flan Fiction out of my head.

Before you begin…here is a picture of Flan.







Now picture your fantasy lover (or husband, boyfriend, etc). Sorry fellas, I wrote this for the ladies.

Got it? Good, now you may begin….Flan Fiction

I have never been a big fan of flan. The way it just sits there, trying to wiggle like jello and failing miserably. It’s caramel thickness just allows it to shimmy in the middle of your plate and I can’t trust food that shimmys.

Anyway, I have never been a big fan of flan until, until I watched him eat it. The precise way he holds his fork. The sharpness of his hand’s descent as it slices through the gooey center of the flan. The slight turn of his hand as he deftly lifts the thin slice from the plate. He brings it close to his face, stopping just under his nose, reveling in the cinnamon smell of the warm candy flavored morsel in front of him. His full, kissable lips open and the shimmying desert slides from his fork onto his pink tongue. He doesn’t gobble the flan quickly, oh no, he savors it. It is this act, the seductive grin on his face as the flan melts on his tongue, his eyes dilating at the burst of flavor he is experiencing. His flan-eating is so erotic that I am immobile, frozen at the sight.

Flan has a completely different meaning to me now.