Red Velvet Cake

It looms before me, a flashing white rectangular box that is a treasure trove of goodies. The cookies and cream ice cream in its waxy container that will put rolls on my hips; the frozen pizza that, when warmed in the oven, will sizzle and slide with grease, a sludge that will strain my arteries. And then there's Robert's leftover mozzarella sticks from our favorite diner; those thickly breaded logs of chunky cheese, a cork that will block the intestines. Pudding, divine and smooth on the palate, but a padding for the waist. Oh God—then there’s the red velvet cake, a wad that stays packed for hours in the stomach because it’s essentially a congealed mixture of dough, fat, eggs, fat, dough, sparkling sugar and, did I mention fat? Fat—I hate you; Fat—I love you; especially when you’re dancing in that red velvet cake, an enigma that is not chocolate, that is not vanilla, but the best, the most decadent of both. It’s moist and compact under a slathering of butter cream icing.

There’ only one thing left to say: Thank God I play tennis. Because I love my food.