I was looking for a way to describe a true cake emergency as only I can have it. I have a thing about cake. It's one of the few things I eat without having to be reminded. When you struggle to stay on the right side of a hundred pounds, food you love seems to magically appear on a regular basis.
There's a very decadent bakery many blocks from our house, and it's too cold to walk there in the winter and too hot in the summer because the desserts would melt on the return trip. They make the most decadent, delicious cakes I have ever tasted, and I love cake. I hate to run out of cake.
Bet you didn't know that. Nope. Surprise!
In any event, I was on the phone with Jake trying to make him see that he needed to hit the cake store on the way home, and he insisted there was a whole cake in the freezer. There was. A generic chocolate freezer cake. He kept telling me we could pull that out and warm it up and it would be fine.
Finally he stopped talking long enough to hear my horrified whispers, barely daring to speak of the pale imitation of cakeish-type sweetness lurking inside the ice box, the fast food little punk brother equivalent of a true double-layer black forest masterpiece baked with kirsch and lovingly drizzled with shaved chocolate curls. Oh...that is cake. And Bridget knows cake.
But Jake, it's ....ghetto cake. I need real cake.
He laughed so hard he had to hang up and he was still laughing when he came home, with a real cake.
I'm sure right now he's planning an intervention. I think I may have a problem.
