When I See A Cupcake…

 

My favorite food is cake. Period. End of the most Leo sentence ever.

 

Why wouldn’t your favorite food be cake??? Cake is obviously the best food. Here are the reasons: you’re supposed to eat cake at the END of the meal because it’s so special, you have to save the best for last. All parties revolve around a cake. Cake is the best food. It’s the special-est food there is.

 

 

I absolutely don’t trust people who say that they prefer pie over cake. PIE?! over CAKE?! SERIOUSLY??! You would rather have a leaky, sticky, soggy puddle of crust and overly-sugary fruits?? Rather than a towering, soft moist, spongy slice of cake, layered with custard and topped with frosting?! Are you being deliberately contrarian, or are you just WRONG? I mean, FROSTING ALONE!!!  Cake is better, and you’re just wrong.

 

 

And let’s stop a minute and talk about frosting, ok? Cake on its own is delicious. I mean, are MUFFINS delicious? Yeah, they’re great. Muffins are awesome. Is BREAD great? Sure! Hell yeah! But imagine there was a food that was just so sweet, so creamy, that the eating of it on its own is forbidden by all of polite society, for it would be a transgression of the rules of living: too decadent! And that’s frosting. Frosting is the crown on top of the coiffure. Frosting is the glitter topcoat on the manicure. Cake is good without it, of course, but the addition of frosting turns cake from a delicious food, into a CELEBRATION.

 

 

If I see cake, I want cake. Cake on TV. Cake on Instagram. I see a cake, I want cake. You know The Great British Bake Off? It’s like torture. I see a cake, I want a cake. BUT! Being gluten-free, I can’t just have cake easily and whenever I want it. I need to source my cake from specialty stores, I must journey to find gluten-free cake. My cake craving is only curbed by necessity. FATE! I had to be gluten intolerant, or I would only eat cake. My cake-trigger is too easily tripped.

 

 

I’m just the kinda gal who eats cake, babe. I remember living in my first apartment in college: working part-time, going to school full-time, always dashing off to rehearsals and always being broke. I joke now that there were whole months when I ate only two meals a day to save money, and both of those meals were Ramen noodles. That’s true. But what ELSE is true is that when I picked up my 6-pack of Ramen at WAL*MART, I’d also grab a $0.99 box of Funfetti cake mix and a $1.25 can of chocolate frosting. I’d bring those home and bake a sheet cake in my brownie pan, laying that frosting down THICK, and cutting it into the smallest pieces I could cut. Every night, at the end of a long day of work and hunger, I’d come home and the last thing I’d do is take one tiny square of cake to savor. That was my little bit of hope and sparkle in an otherwise very difficult time in my life. I’ve always been a cake gal.

 

 

Cake isn’t just my reality. Cake follows me into my dreams. Ah, yes, the Cake Dream. I have recurring cake dreams, in which I almost always eat cake with my hands, like Johnny Cash high in a bush. Looking into it, cake in a dream is generally a sign of positive things. Rewards, and good things on the horizon. Even when it’s not real, cake is a good thing. 

 

 

I had a Cake Dream again last night. In it, I was either Romy or Michelle, living out the climax of Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion. It was time for the dance, the pivotal dance, where I express myself so beautifully that I win back the respect of everyone who mocked me in high school! It was me (Romy/Michelle), Michelle/Romy (my accomplice), Alan Cumming (megababe) and in the center of the circle formed by our joined hands, a three-tiered cake adorned with white frosting and strawberries. I gave the other two the signal, and began the dance. We fed each other strawberries, and spun around, dipping and bending over backwards in lyrical, modern-dance movements. THEN, SOMEONE PULLED THE FIRE ALARM. Someone in the crowd RUINED my moment, the moment that was rightfully mine! As everyone exited the building, I wheeled the cake out on it’s pedestal and ate it with my hands. I ate the whole cake (the bottom tier was a fake cake, as often people are wont to do to save money while still having the appearance of a grand, tall cake). I ate the strawberries. I ate the top tier. I ate the frosting off the styrofoam fake-cake base. You steal my spotlight? I eat your cake. I used my hands. It was my right! I’m the kind of girl who will have your cake, and eat it too! I’m a diva! I’m a cake gal! That’s just the kind of person I am.

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