I baked a devil's food cake this weekend with extra frosting. We're talking at least an inch of delicious whipped chocolate frosting.
I am a single woman who lives in an apartment by myself.
It's a recipe for disaster.
My thought process was as follows: 1) It's a beautiful rainy fall day. I just want to cuddle up in my apartment. 2) Apartments are way better when they are filled with delicious baking smells. Think about how magical cinnamon rolls smell in the morning. 3) Cake mix is on sale.
What I forgot to think through is where exactly is this cake going to go once I finish it. The only answer is that this cake is going to eventually go into me. Even when I had roommates or a boyfriend, most of that cake was probably going to go into me, because girl likes to eat. BUT, mentally, I would be able to convince myself that I only ate a few slices. You're just tasting it. You probably don't need to even go to the gym. Maybe drink some lemon water and do a sit up or something.
I can't tell myself that anymore.
It's no longer just a cake. It's is a daily measurement of my gluttony.
I had one normal slice last night. I had a normal slice this morning...well, as "normal" as a "I'm pretending this is okay to eat for breakfast" slice can be. And it feels like I've barely removed anything from the pan at all!
I keep looking at this cake and thinking that I can't possibly fit all of that in me. I don't WANT to fit all of that in me. The idea of throwing away an entire sheet cake, however, fills me with paralyzing horror. You ALWAYS clear your plate.
I just wanted my apartment to be warm and scented with the smells of happiness and cake.