Kunzle Cakes are part of my childhood. Probably about 1957, when I was 10, my mother would buy my sister and I one in the cafeteria on Preston Station. I can still hear the coffee maker hissing out steam, and the trains blowing their whistles and thundering past. Oh, the choice - a lemon oval, a pink round, a chocolate square, wrapped in a squeaky 'cellophane' wrapper. The chocolate button went first, then the buttercream was licked away, leaving a chocolate shell with spongecake inside. I can taste them still. And nothing, nothing, nothing comes near them.
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Kunzle Cakes are part of my childhood. Probably about 1957, when I was 10, my mother would buy my sister and I one in the cafeteria on Preston Station. I can still hear the coffee maker hissing out steam, and the trains blowing their whistles and thundering past. Oh, the choice - a lemon oval, a pink round, a chocolate square, wrapped in a squeaky 'cellophane' wrapper. The chocolate button went first, then the buttercream was licked away, leaving a chocolate shell with spongecake inside. I can taste them still. And nothing, nothing, nothing comes near them.
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