The Sixth Food Pyramid Part 3, Resolution #12

Today in the Midwest it's 19 degrees outside and breezy.  I'm hiding in the basement with George, the Superpet, because there is a large, fiery ball in the sky and I'm afraid.  It's making everything bright outside and looking deceptively warm.  George the Superpet has taken up a defensive position in case of alien attack:

"Say hello to my little friend...."

So back to the Sixth Food Pyramid.  I'm sure you're just as sick of it as I am, but sometimes when you take up a theme, you have to finish it.  I may not have packed the "best" lunches today, or dressed the kids in "matching" and "clean" clothes, or had everyone at school "on time", but God as my witness, I will finish a theme on this blog.  And dress up and photograph my dog.  Because I have priorities.

As a refresher, this is the Sixth Food Pyramid: 

There is the small, happy triangle at the top, composed of latte after latte.  The middle section is made up of salts and fats, derived from Taco Bell, Papa John's pizza, and beer, with a healthy dose of sleeping in.  But everything needs a base, and this pyramid has the Holy Grail of bad eating:  Orgasmically delicious desserts, baked and DELIVERED by someone else.  Oh yes.  I know people who bake.  With pure dairy butter.

The Base of the Pyramid is Built of Desserts from Friends

Bitches.  

And I say that with love.  I noticed last year that every photo of me had this middle-aged woman in them with a double chin and Michelin Man middle.  I don't know who she was, but she kept blocking me out of every shot.  Then Youngest Daughter made a comment about how Mommy's belly was softer than hers, and "are we having another baby", and "why don't you put the muffin down, lardass?"  (Okay, YD didn't say that, but I know she thought it.  She is equal parts sweetness and Howard Stern.)

Mommy went on Medifast.  The first week or two were a little difficult, much like a client in Dr. Drew's Celebrity rehab.  Mommy would eat her soy bar and look at the children's meals much like Wiley Coyote would look at the Roadrunner.  But once Mommy kicked the sugar, she lost 30 pounds and all was well in the world.  Hey, that was EASY!

Until desserts started coming, that is.  We have a school festival every year, and a friend of mine bought a year of desserts from another friend of ours who is a supreme, other-worldly good baker, to which words cannot do justice.  Friend #1 decided to split her desserts and send half of them to my house, so every other month, a little slice of heaven appears at my door.  For example, she makes a Cherry Chip Cookie that is a sugar cookie the size of a small plate, filled with butter and delicious cherry chips and covered in sugar.  Oh.  My.  Lord.  Here is what that cookie looks like:

I ate it.  But you get the idea.

Then she makes these amazing desserts.  Cakes, bars, pastries.  She covers her eyes when she walks down the boxed cake aisle at the grocery store (this has been witnessed) because she can't live in a world where cakes are not made from scratch.  (I've been a long-time resident of Boxed-Cake Planet.)  She does not understand the concept of margarine, and therefore, she is the one who really CANNOT believe it's not butter.  There is a Raspberry Bar that is literally to die for.  I won't eat them, because every who has is dead.  But happy.  Here is a From Scratch Chocolate Cake with, you guessed it, Homemade Ice Cream:

  Yeah.  I ate that too.

Last week, I felt like I was finally getting back on track with my diet after the Food Binge other people refer to as "Christmas".  My phone rang.  It was The Baker, and it was time for my desserts.  DAMN!  She offered to bring Red Velvet Cupcakes with Cream Cheese Frosting.  I started salivating profusely and said, "Okay".  She said she would bring them over the next day.  Fresh.  

I tried to put those cupcakes out of my head, but images of sugary, velvety deliciousness kept creeping in.  Would I eat the first one with a coffee or with milk?  Would I use a fork or just shove it in or mainline it into my arm?  The next morning, I started watching the clock.  Three hours until cupcakes.  Two.  One.  She was late.  Where was she?  Wasn't she supposed to be here by now?  WHERE THE HELL ARE MY CUPCAKES!!!  The very cupcakes I told myself I didn't want yesterday morning.  And now my mouth was dry and cracked and dusty.  My body was twitching.  I couldn't focus on anything.  Finally, her van pulled up.  The entire family gathered round.

I waited for her to carry them to the door (it's COLD out there!) grabbed the tray, said thanks, and slammed the door in her face.  I put the tray on the floor and shoved one whole cupcake in my mouth.  Ohmigod.  Ohmigod they were so good.  Cream cheesy red velvety sugary warm cakey love.  Every member of my family sat on the floor, in various stages of shoving cupcakes in their mouths.  Here it is:

Gone.  All of them, gone.

I meant to take a picture of the actual cupcakes, but really and truly, my family devoured them.  There were TWO DOZEN cupcakes.  There are five members of my family.  We ate 24 cupcakes in less than 48 hours.  It was the weekend, so let's factor in 20 hours of sleep (honesty IS the best policy).  That leaves 28 hours, 24 cupcakes, and five people.

MATH MOMENT:  24 cupcakes/five people = 4.8 per person

Spread over 28 hours, that means each member of my family had a cupcake about every 6 hours while awake over two days.  Cupcakes eaten while sleeping or in dreams are not factored in.

RESOLUTION #12:  Stop dieting.

Let's be honest, this is a losing battle.  I love food.  And people keep showing up with the stuff at my house.  I know too many people who can cook really, really well and are very generous with their talents.  (Don't even get me started on the pork tenderloin mini sandwiches with warm red and green pepper and onion relish served at Book Club a few months ago - I still dream about them).  

Rachel Zoe?  Come on over, I can help.  Victoria Beckham?  I can put a smile on your face.  Everything tastes better than being skinny feels, Kate Moss.  Kirstie Alley?  Get the F out of my house, those cupcakes are MINE.