I know it's all about food, but I like food. I especially like cake. I worked all day, cleaned, organized bins and bins of kids clothing. Up and down into the attic multiple times. I only almost only fell off once while holding a bin of clothes over my head.
Now sitting here, all I want is cake. With icing. Lots of it. I blames genetics for this. Growing up there was not much formal desert. Maybe the occasional ccc (chocolate chip cookie) if someone happened to bake that day. But there was ALWAYS the after dinner shuffle...trying to keep quiet the rustle...crunch...rustle...munch of someone looking for a treat.
Whether it was a handful of semi-sweet chocolate chips or one of dad's Stella Dora's (I'm pretty sure he figured out none of us would touch these, so he could have the whole packet to himself) there was a sweet tooth that needed to be soothed. And that has been passed on to me. And here I am. Sitting. About to pad onto the kitchen to quietly rustle..crunch...rustle....trying to keep quiet so Bri doesn't know.
But it's not me. It's my teeth. They're telling me to do it. And while I know I may find something in there, I know there is no cake.
But there is some butter out on the counter waiting for an ambitious person to bake something.
Maybe tomorrow.
Cake...it's my downfall.
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