Ah, there are times when I simply treasure being young, single, and in possession of a still-fast metabolism. Tonight after work, slumped on the floor in a heap of shivering, listless depression, I told my roommate, "I really just want to eat a whole chocolate cake." She, being a woman and also hating this cold, dark week, agreed. I imagined having a gooey, double-layer chocolate confection, the kind with icing so sweet and thin that it soaks into the fluffy cake, which is really just there to be a vehicle for the icing. In my fantasy, it was just me, a fork, the cake, and maybe Amelie.
So I made a chocolate cake. Okay, actually, I made cupcakes. They're more portable, I told myself, so I can take a few to work instead of eating the lion's share. Whatever. While they baked, I snacked on some baby carrots and some blue-corn tortilla chips and fresh salsa. Then I had several tablespoons of icing and three frosted cupcakes, and some ice cream, and a glass of milk.
I know. It sounds like a disgusting sequence. But... mmmmmm....
Someday, I really won't be able to eat chocolate cake for dinner. And I probably won't want to -- even now, I generally prefer balanced meals and good, fresh food. I'm gonna feel pretty crappy in about an hour, when I lie down for bed and my stomach reminds me that it doesn't digest baked goods without a fight. But you know what? I don't give a damn tonight. It's been an overwhelming week, and it's 17 degrees outside, and it was just me, the cake, and some Friends reruns. Reality is all right. Chocolate cake is pretty good. Tomorrow I will have some spinach.
