Let Them Eat WAY-TOO-MUCH Cake

I think I just experienced the ultimate, near-perfect, most wonderful day yesterday. It was book-ended by cake.

So, this weekend, we visited my brother and his family near Houston. They have this stellar piece of property that Mike and I drool over every time we visit. They sit on about two wooded acres with a lovely house and a great pool that flows from the house via a patio with a TV, lots of chairs, and a cooler the size of Montana that can hold all sort of beverage. Just for us, it seemed, the weather fairies were out in full-force, giving us plenty of sunshine and cooler temps. Had there been mountains in the background, I would have pronounced it Heaven.

Now the reason for our visit was birthdays. Let's just say that the fertility gods shown upon our family this particular part of the month; we celebrate three birthdays in the span of 13 days at the beginning of September.

Quite correctly, then, there were THREE cakes in the house. White cake/white frosting, chocolate cake/white frosting, and yellow cake/chocolate frosting.

Having this much cake around is MommaJ nirvana. I could have lounged on the back porch with a fork and a barf bucket, all Roman-like*, and eaten all of them in Guinness World Book record time. But, I still have some modicum of decency about me.

On Saturday we enjoyed birthday festivities for brother and my Bro, with gifts, cake, ice cream, and way too many candles. I had a piece of cake the size of a pumpkin in mid-October. A pumpkin grown for it's size. That has to be transported via forklift, to the scale at the county fair, to be weighed in at slightly under 500 lbs. To say I was on a sugar-high would be the worst bit of under-exaggeration in the world.

I ate such a large piece of cake on Saturday night that I thought "That's it. I've enjoyed my cake for the weekend. Back to trying to watch what I eat." Then Sunday morning issued in, with the smell of early-morning coffee wafting through the house, beckoning me to fill my mug half-full of over-sweet, vanilla-flavored creamer and half-full of strong coffee.

The minute the spiked coffee hit my lips and that satisfying sugar met my taste buds, the devil on my right shoulder, from whom all suggestions about eating issue forth, whispered, "Au contraire, madame. You are NOT done eating cake. Turn around."

When I spotted the half-eaten beauties, I felt for them. I imagined the cakes feeling neglected when they were thrown to the back of the counter, maybe to never be touched again. I wondered how it must feel to be covered in transparent plastic, partially-naked at the edges. Well I wasn't taking any chances with the feelings of THESE cake orphans. I greedily helped myself to another pumpkin-sized slice. Then I chased the cake with eggs, so I'd feel better about my diabetes-inducing, artery-choking second slice in less than twelve hours.

For lunch? A big salad. Redemption, of sorts.

Then dinner. Holy cats. One of our bestest couple friends and their kids were celebrating their son's 11th birthday, with their extended family. There were a total of nineteen of us and food for about eighty.

Smoked chicken and brisket, baked potatoes with the fixins, homemade mac n cheese made with an entire stick of butter and at least four cheeses, grilled vegetables, crescent rolls and french bread. A virtual tour of all things grand, starchy, and carby. By the time I ate the obligatory plate of food, I was stuffed. Like a thanksgiving turkey.

Then, around rolled the cake. Marbled white and chocolate cake with white frosting.

I really shouldn't have, but I took the edge piece. In case you've never noticed, there are only four of these coveted areas on a cake. And nobody around me WANTED the one that was cut. So, I dove in with abandon. Frankly, enjoyed every last bite, with absolutely NO guilt.

In fact, I told my friend "This is the perfect day. It began with cake and ended with cake."

Little did I know, but I should have, the day would REALLY end with Tums. But, that, as they say, is another story.

And, in my spirit, I still hear the loud cry of partially-eaten cakes everywhere, beckoning me to their assistance. And so, my war cry, even after much too much of the spongy, airy, divine goodness?

VIVA LA CAKE!



*One of the funniest/grossest SNL skits, the historically inaccurate, "Vomitorium".