You can all relax. I got some birthday cake.
Richard brought home a giant slice of chocolate cake on Tuesday night, along with a card and a bouquet of tulips (true story: I was driving down Gessner yesterday and passed a florist’s shop which had spelled bouquet as “bokay” on all of their signs…*sigh*). He accurately stated the fact: “Neither of us needs an entire cake, so I just brought you one slice.” But what a delicious slice it was.
I ate half of the slice that night, along with my bun thit nuong and spring rolls. Stuffed to the gills, I sadly put the other half of the slice — the moist chocolate cake heavy and redolent with two thick layers of frosting — into the refrigerator. It was devishly good, but any more and I would have ended up like Mr. Creosote.
The next morning, I blearily stumbled down the stairs as the dogs tumbled madly past me, nearly knocking me down in the process. I let them out into the backyard to do their business and eat breakfast. And it occurred to me as I was feeding them their Pedigree — I STILL HAVE CHOCOLATE CAKE IN THE FRIDGE. I can have chocolate cake for breakfast, right?
Five minutes later, I found myself on the couch with the other half of the slice, a glass of milk and an old episode of Charmed on TV. Not a bad way to start a Wednesday morning, really.
Ten minutes later, the cake was gone and Richard was coming down the stairs. As he walked into the living room, his eyes lighted on the empty cake carton and the chocolate-stained tines of the fork that lay next to it. “Did you eat the rest of that cake?” he asked. “FOR BREAKFAST?”
A sheepish grin. “Yes. Why?”
“I can’t believe you ate that for breakfast.” He shook his head, obviously disappointed in me.
“Why? It’s no worse for me than a bowl of Count Chocula!”
“We don’t keep Count Chocula in the house. Anyway, that’s not the point. I just can’t believe you ate that for breakfast.” As if I’d eaten the dead bird that had crashed into the bedroom window the previous morning, and fallen lifelessly onto the patio.
Tiny voice. “I’m sorry. It was my birthday cake; I liked it.”
“Well, it’s not your birthday anymore.”
Terribly ashamed of myself by this point, I threw the cake carton into the trash and washed the fork, removing all traces of the act. The rest of the day, I thought about that little slice of cake and how good it was. How can something that good make you feel so awful about yourself?
Last night, I stared at myself in the mirror, eyeing the extra ten pounds that I’ve put on in the last month. Richard stood next to me, brushing his teeth.
“All this Chowhounding has really gotten to my waistline,” I moaned bitterly. “I’ve got to get back to the gym and stop eating out so much.”
He stopped brushing and stared with me. After a moment, he spoke through the toothpaste foam in his mouth: “Well, maybe if you didn’t eat chocolate cake all the time, you wouldn’t have gained so much weight.”
“You brought me that cake for my birthday!”
“You didn’t have to eat it.”
So, as of this coming Monday, I am officially on a diet, folks. I’d start it sooner if I didn’t have plans for the rest of the week that go completely against any possible diet. I’ll be taking all tips, hints and suggestions on how not to kill anyone while on said diet in the comments section below. And if you want to find me at night, I’ll be at Bally’s.
Don’t fret, though. There’s plenty of food-related news and minutiae to report on even while dieting, so she eats. will be as meaty and delicious as ever. 🙂