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Proper Nutrition Is for Lovers

August 19, 2009

Last week I went for dinner at the manor of my BFF and her mad scientist husband, also a good F of mine. I was on dessert detail, and I baked a cherry chip cake with French vanilla frosting. It looked like the culinary equivalent of my hands and knees after I fell off the garbage rack of a four-wheeler and went skidding down a gravel road and big flaps and chunks of my outer flesh were dangling precariously from my limbs, while other pieces had been completely gouged away by the gravel, leaving the pink inner meat painfully exposed, and the Ozonol I’d slathered liberally over the whole mess added a sticky puslike semitranslucent outer sheen through which the flesh of the more severe wounds nauseatingly peeked. The cake tasted better than it looked, and my dinner hosts were very polite about the whole thing, but irregardless, I felt obligated to reassure myself of my kitchen competence by purchasing a second cherry

bove: the as-yet unfrosted, hideous-looking (but totally edible) cake under discussion. Seneca looks on with curiosity. The sheep provides ambience. Photo courtesy of Dr. J. Wilson.

Above: the as-yet unfrosted, hideous-looking (but totally edible) cake under discussion. Seneca looks on with curiosity. The sheep provides ambience. Photo courtesy of Dr. J. Wilson.

chip cake mix yesterday morning and using my mad Susie Homemaker baking skillz to transform it into 24 uninjured cupcakes.

Several years ago, I made a solemn pledge to myself that if solitude was my destiny, and/or if it was divinely ordained that I would be a student well into my 30s, I could totally accept that, but I was going to vacuum and clean the bathroom on a regular basis, and I wasn’t going to leave my dirty laundry in a pile in the bedroom, and, to the extent that money and the terms of my leases allowed, I was going to decorate my homes in such a way that when friends came over they wouldn’t feel like they’d just entered a time warp to their first-year dorm. Also, I was going to eat decently. Kraft Dinner consumption would be kept to a reasonable minimum. Pizza would be ordered once a month at the most. Et cetera.

I’ve come to enjoy cooking as much as I’ve come to dislike Kraft Dinner (homemade mac ‘n’ cheese is the shiznit), but the preparation of a lovely meal always ends in the anticlimax of having to search the kitchen for numerous plastic containers to store the hilarious amount of leftovers. Then I eat a single serving of my delectable concoction at the living room coffee table while watching Wheel of Fortune, which drives me insane because the damn idiots on that show take forfuckingever to solve the puzzles and it’s like, Come on, you fuckers, get it together, you’re a disgrace to the English language, and when they finally do figure it out they squeal and clap like two-year-olds playing peek-a-boo with their grandparents, and I’m trying to concentrate on the awesomeness of my meal but it’s hard sometimes, Lord, it’s hard. Then I have to have the same thing for dinner for the rest of the week, and by the time it’s finally gone, the entree that I was so excited about is now something I don’t want to see in front of me for a very long time. And baking has even sillier results because it usually yields a lot more than four servings. Even though I have a body type that combines the height of a meerkat with the metabolism of a meerkat, I have no interest in consuming more than two cupcakes per day.

I have an overweight black roommate who loves food. Unfortunately, she’s a cat. She wouldn’t eat a cupcake even if I offered her one, which I probably won’t. So here I am, an aging spinster for all intents and purposes alone in her apartment, her fridge besieged once again by a ludicrous quantity of baked goods. Ailinon ailinon eipe, to d’ eu nikato. (It’s Aeschylus. Never mind.) If it was 1950, I would have been married years ago, probably to some guy. I’d be a stay-at-home mom chasing after two to four children, depending on our fertility level and how old I was when we got married and various other factors that it’s best not to get into here. It’s a bleak picture in a lot of ways, but on the other hand, when that chick makes two dozen cupcakes, she’s not in a position of having to eat them all herself.

I’m down to 18. For the mathematically lazy, that means I’ve had six in the past 24 hours. And you may well ask: Should a single person eat that many cupcakes in one day? To which I reply: My dear good friend, a single person has to.

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