On Sunday, my roommate ran a half marathon. To celebrate, I baked her a cake. Nothing fancy, I have no pictures. It's just a Pillsbury Funfetti cake (oh yuhhh) with a center layer of chocolate frosting and an entire can of vanilla wrapping it in a sugary frosting hug. No big deal.
To date, my roommate (who, remember, ran the half marathon) has eaten one piece of the cake, and I have eaten about five.
I guess now would be an appropriate time to acknowledge the fact that it's only Tuesday. LAY OFF ME, I'M STARVING.
My love of cake I think has been a lifelong kind of affair. And I don't discriminate. From rich red velvet with heaps of cream cheese frosting sprinkled with just the right amount of walnuts right on down to angel's food with strawberries and cool whip, I love them all. Everything about cake is absolutely to die for: there's the drippy, sickly sweet cake batter, then the warm cake-in-the-oven smell that fills every corner of the house, then layering on the frosting and smoothing it and smoothing it and smoothing it again like you have fucking OCD, and then, and only then, cutting that perfect, perfect square piece. Did you just have an orgasm? I might have.
When I was first waitressing, I worked in a banquet hall. They called me the dessert kid because I happily skipped my employee dinner in favor of the leftover cookies, icecream, and, the motherlode, usually only enjoyed at weddings, yes, yes, yes, the pricey gourmet cake. Brides always want to have the BIGGEST cakes--they want their wedding to be the fanciest and prettiest--but it always ends up being way too much cake. Hunks of that soft yellow cake filled with fresh strawberries and covered in fluffy buttercream frosting used to come home with me in styrofoam to-go containers. And it was orgasmic cake. I ate so much it would give me a stomach ache from all the sugar, and then I would subsequently lapse into the happiest cake induced coma and dream of spongecake clouds in a whipped buttercream sky.
But back to my cake, you know, the one that I made my roommate for running the half marathon? It's sitting there on the stove, calling my name. It wants a home, and that home is my belly. (Did I just sound like Fat Bastard?) I thought about it all the way back to my apartment from work today. I caught myself actually smiling on the subway platform like a schoolgirl in love. I was thinking about that canned, goopy, but amazing vanilla frosting and from-a-box fluffy cake goodness making its way from the fork into my mouth. It was a mantra the whole way home. Cake! Cake! Cake! Cake!
I guess it will be like this until the cake is gone. Lord knows I won't be making another one anytime soon. But know this: it has been a very long time since a man has made me quite as happy as cake has made me.
And also know this: if eating cake all day is wrong, I don't want to be right.