Oh, Sugar, Sugar!

Would someone please tell me why a two-layer yellow cake with chocolate frosting is so tempting to the palate?  Why even though one of those delectable slices did not find its way onto a dessert plate for me, the crumbs and frosting clinging to the knife and server were licked clean away?  Try figuring out the calorie count for that!  The sweet represents my son's fifteenth birthday; that is on top of the donuts and Toaster Strudels he requested as his birthday breakfast; and after the homemade fresh peach cobbler we downed during yesterday's family BBQ to commemorate his ageing.  And the horizon of months ahead is awash with holidays and more birthdays -- a big 18 AND 21st -- not to mention the fall revival of baking for college groups which meet at our church.  Why, everywhere I turn, it seems that I'm replete with sugar-osity.  Can I click my heels three times and think, "There's no place like a sugar-free home!  There's no place like a sugar-free home!"  Probably not.  I'd catch sight of my ruby slippers and mistake them for hard candies.  Crushed cherry Jolly Ranchers anyone?  Just the thought makes my mouth water.

My appetite for a daily dose of sweetness used to tempt my resolve in the latter part of the year, specifically the night in October which involves dumping out the contents of pillow cases and bags on the living room carpet and sorting the mini-Almond Joys and Snickers from the rest of the stash.  My kids would look on in mock horror as I transmogrified into the troll at the bridge, demanding payment before crossing.  "You can keep ALL of that," I'd announce, sweeping my arm across the expanse of Twizzlers, Nerds, Smarties, and Skittles, "but I'd better put the chocolates in a special jar in the kitchen cupboard for safe keeping.  They might melt all over everything.  That's all I need is another mess to make you clean!"

But within the past few years, the time frame is vague and I plan to keep it that way, the sugar monster within has reared its rotten-toothed acne-riddled fat face.  It reveals its whereabouts at the most inopportune times, hitting me with cravings at gas stations, driving down the road past small dive restaurants I would usually never wish to frequent, and even when I'm gardening.  I've shifted from an affectionate lover of milk chocolate to a screaming rabid fan of dark chocolate.  At World Market, there exists a sea-salty caramel-centered creation drenched in rich dark cacao goodness.  If my thighs would not revolt against me, I'd consent to a daily dose in a med line!  Jo's Chocolates is the confectioner in case anyone finds they have an itch to scratch.  Scratch!

It doesn't stop with chocolate, though.  Lemon curd gently spooned over a snowy wedge of coconut cake has my eyes taking bites long before the fork reaches my trembling lips.  A pint of Rum Raisin ice cream, with three spoons to alleviate guilt -- my husband and daughter adopt the co-hort roles but everyone knows it's all a show because I shovel the frozen treat down my gullet like it's blocking my driveway and I'm trying to make it to the ER -- stands as a proved PMS and period cure.  And there's no way I can force myself through an entire movie at the theater without the yin of Red Vines or Raisinettes to balance the yang of my smuggled air popcorn!

I think this whole sugar dilemma, butting so unceremoniously against my healthier eating proclivities and producing guilt by proxy, is why I also suffer from an addiction to Kyra Sedgewick's consummate performance on The Closer as Deputy Chief Brenda Lee Johnson.  Her character is fit and flawed.  Under moments of extreme duress or triumph, both of which our heroine experiences on a regular basis, she seeks refuge in the top left drawer of her office desk.  There she keeps a stash of cookies, chocolate candies, Ho-Ho's, and the like.  If you've never seen her painful surrender to the sugar-monster, you ain't seen nothin'!  The way she peels the foil wrapper back from the hard exterior of the Ho-Ho and takes that first bite . . . and later, when she dips her finger in the creamy dark center and eats it all-l-l gone.  Well, I know I ate it with her, and those little fake chocolate hockey pucks aren't even in my top 100!

So if you see me in a coffee shop, incognito with sunglasses and a floppy hat, either join me as I take on my pastry, or better still, my wiggling puddle of custardy flan from Chuy's Mexican Restaurant on Broad Street, or keep on walking.  An intervention would NOT turn out well for you!  Be warned.  Go in peace to your local bakery.