Life in the Past Lane

Ever since I can remember I have liked to eat cake batter and cookie dough. My all time favorite is white cake. From the days of my youth when my mother baked cakes to the present day I have never had enough batter. There is never enough batter left in the bowl.

When my children, TW and TM, were at home, I had to compete with them which left me with very meager portions. When I complained to management, BW, I got the stock answer that the cake would not rise properly if more batter were left out. I never accepted that answer but you can't fight city hall. The meager amount that I received reminded me of the paltry amount of swill the kids got in Oliver Twist.

One day I decided that I had suffered enough. I determined that my deprivation must end and that my need for a sufficient quantity of cake batter must be fulfilled. My body cried out for more. My mind could not be content unless drastic actions were taken. My inner need for that delicacy longed for satiation. My tongue craved batter and more batter. The meager quantity that is traditionally left in the customary bowl no longer slaked my appetite for that smooth viscous ambrosia that twirled musically on my tongue, then slid effortlessly down my esophagus to my tummy where it segued into my bloodstream and sent a message to my brain that shouted, "this is good stuff."

Taking matters into my own hands, throwing caution to the wind, propelling myself with reckless abandon I purchased a cake mix and began my pilgrimage to paradise. I rummaged around in the cabinet and found a suitable glass-mixing bowl into which I poured the contents of the white cake mix. Then I added the requisite egg, water and a bit of oil as required in the directions. Next, I found the mixer and commenced to mix. After just a few minutes of whirring and whipping, the batter was ready. As I gazed at it, I began to salivate. My lips could barely hold back the floodtide as my anticipation grew to Matterhorn dimensions. Only a Herculean swallowing effort prevented a salivary "boo-boo" on the counter.

My prize was ready. The bowl was nearly full. I removed the beaters and flippantly discarded them in the sink. Normally I lick them to get every tiny morsel of batter. Today they were insignificant compared to the bounty of batter in the bowl. Usually BW brings the bowl with its pitiful remnant of batter clinging desperately to the sides and the lip, the beaters and a spatula as my eating tool. None of that today. I ceremoniously took the bowl and its heavenly contents and a tablespoon and went out on the patio where I could consume my ambrosia while communing with nature.

I took a seat in the swing that is nestled in the shade of a huge Tulip tree beside the patio, and contemplated briefly on the delicious prize before me. Then I plunged that tablespoon deeply into the magic elixir filling it to where it could hold no more and then placed it into my mouth where my tongue was making moves that Ricky Martin can only dream about. My taste buds were having a block party with a live band and dancing. I savored the flavor. I was making noises like the wine steward in a swanky restaurant or the judge at the annual wine festival in Napa Valley. I was addicted and unafraid.