I have a problem
I’m not really a sweets person. I’ve been told I should stay away from them because they do tricky things to my blood sugar (apparently, so does beer and wine, I just figure I’ll save my daily allotment of sugars for those goodies). There are certain things I have a hard time saying no to: chocolate covered almonds being one, any sort of berry pie being another. Cake, however, is not one of them.
I don’t like cake. Yep, I said it. I didn’t have one at my wedding, because why would you pay for something you don’t want to eat? At birthday parties I usually skip it. I especially don’t like boxed cakes, or the cakes you buy at the grocery store. They just taste like cotton candy–all sugar, no substance and they tend to give me a headache. And all that frosting? Gross. Blech. No thank you.
To say my husband has a sweet tooth would be what we call an understatement. And he is non-discriminating. Baked goods? Yes, please. Chocolate? Sure. Coconut? Yep. Pudding, mmm, pudding. Sweet-tart gummy candies? Even better. He had a hidden stash in his desk drawer that he NEVER TOLD ME ABOUT until we’d been married for months. And when I found it and teased him–well, his face looked like a kid who just got caught. It was amazing.
A few days before Christmas Brian mentioned that he was craving chocolate cake. I pondered this. I’d already planned to make him homemade cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning–which, my friends is no small feat. But I thought, eh, I could throw together a cake, right? No biggie.
I am not so much a baker. Mainly because I don’t like to follow directions (I know, insert exclamations of surprise here). I like to improvise. I’m really good at soups and salad dressings and sauces that say in the recipe “season to taste.” That usually means do whatever you want, and/or add more garlic. I have a whole shelf full of cookbooks, some of which I’ve never used. So, to bake–which requires strict adherence to the directions–not one but two things in one weekend was risky.
So I made this cake. I didn’t have enough white sugar, so I only used the brown, and substituted a bit of coffee for milk but otherwise followed the recipe to the letter. I mean, people, this was the most amazing cake I’ve had in a while. It was moist, it was dense. It was rich, but not heavy. It was sweet but without that toothachy sweetness. It. Was. Amazing.
Please excuse the poor quality of this photo, it can be attributed entirely to the shaking of my hand as a result of a massive sugar high.
I sit here and try to read or write or do ANYTHING and I think about that cake. I swear I’m dreaming about the cake.
And so I sneak over and steal a forkful. From the middle, naturally, because that’s the best part. And I saunter away, pretending nothing happened. And then I think, oh, just one more bite. And then, oh, I’ll just have a bite with my afternoon coffee. And then I leave the fork in the cakepan, because jeeze, Sarah, you’re dirtying up all the forks already.
I must be stopped, but I can’t do it. I thought, “oh, just take it to work, let your coworkers have the rest and you won’t be haunted by it.” And the unreasonable, addicted, snarling Sarah reared her ugly head “Why would I do that? I don’t like them that much. They won’t appreciate this cake for what it is.”
What is it, you ask? SUPERCAKE.
I write this not because I’m proud of what I’ve created or even because I think it’s a funny story. I write this so you will SHAME ME INTO NOT EATING ANYMORE.