They say Ambrosia is the food of the gods.

Supposedly, it's unbelievably delicious and can give immortality and other such nonsense. Well, that's a big pile of sweaty, unshaven bollocks. How do I know? Because I am a god, and we're already immortal, for a start. If you lot had any, it'd kill you. Your guts can't handle it. It's simply toooo good. For you, anyway. Your mortal physiologies can't handle a taste beyond anything you've ever experienced.

For us, who have had our fills of pretty much any food that's ever existed, it's... OK. I mean, it's fine, in its own way. A little rich, for my liking. Some, like that Roman lot, put it with everything. Pork, with a side of Ambrosia. Chicken, with a side of Ambrosia. Little lost children, with a side of bloody Ambrosia. Jesus (because even the Christians have to get in somewhere), they'd have Ambrosia with a side of sodding Ambrosia.

Mount Olympus is too crowded for all of us, but that's another story. We can't all lay claim to dominance in the universe, even though we do.

Anyway. Ambrosia is food for us gods, but it's not the food. That title, as far as I'm concerned, is cheesecake. You may scoff, in a derisory way, while I'd scoff it in a yummy in my tummy way, but it's true. Made right, cheesecake is the best. Ambrosia sulks in a corner with its bottom lip out, throwing evil glances at the chillers where all the lovely cheesecakes wait to be consumed.

I just like to say, I invented it. I'd like to say that, but I can't. You humans did, which is why you're still here. If it wasn't for that there delicacy, you'd have been gone after voting Trump in the first time. I mean, people! But, if you try to say it wasn't me, I'll smite you down with a bolt of lightning.

Granted, I'd have to sneak it away from Zeus, but he's generally pissed and surrounded by writhing flesh, so he wouldn't notice. He's too busy producing demi gods. There's so many of them now, he's lost count, not that he'd be bothered anyway. To him, all the fun is in the making. Once that's sorted, the aftermath doesn't even get a second thought. But, about one in ten down on Earth are sired by him, so if you're in a room with lots of people, and you're not the demi god, then just look around...

Anyway, again. It might sound like I'm jealous. I'm not... erm... honest. He's our king and all that, so he can do what he wants. Which he does. It's as fine as Ambrosia, meaning it's just OK. We get left alone by him, which I don't mind at all. It means I can concentrate on the important things in this unending life, and the vital decisions, as a god, I must make.

Lemon or chocolate orange flavour.

Hmmm...

Oh, and don't get me started on key lime pie!