Fatty Likes Cake

I would love to prove the ugly stereotype of the stay-at-home mom (even though my kids are 21, 23, and 25) of spending the day lying on the couch, watching Maury, drinking coffee, and smoking... because if that's what I did all day, I'd undoubtedly be a lot thinner.


Instead, I spend a large part of my time foraging through my pantry and throwing together amazingly delicious concoctions that stimulate both shock and awe amongst my tastebuds, because I have nothing else to do... and Maury irritates the crap out of me.  (USE BIRTH CONTROL OR STOP SLEEPING AROUND, YOU IDIOTS!!!  Or, HERE'S a thought... One guy per night, maybe?  It'll help narrow the odds CONSIDERABLY.  Oh, AND?  If there's the slightest possibility that HE'S NOT THE FATHER, don't yell and scream and get in his face insisting that he IS before the test results are in.  Because YOU?  Have now lost ALL of your credibility.  Oh, And?  You look like a slut.  Okay, I'm done.)  


Finding something to eat has never been an issue for me... There is no such thing in my world as "nothing to eat."  I can create magic with a bag of flour and an egg.  If all I have in the house is rice, I will somehow manage to whip up a decadently delicious three course meal.  It's a gift, y'all... and a curse.  (It also annoys Dan, because most of the time, he uses the "there's nothing to eat" excuse because he wants to go out to eat.  It never works, because I will prove him wrong.  Every.  Single.  Time.)


So, why is it a curse, you ask?  Delicious food, being right... does it get any better than that?


Because with all this time on my hands to ruminate on the idiocy of the people appearing on Maury while plotting my next meal, I stand the risk of being THAT PERSON who makes the 6 o'clock news because a wall of my apartment needs to be torn down to fork-lift my fat ass out of the house.


Fatty likes cake, indeed (King of Queens reference... google it.  I find it hilarious).  Fatty can also MAKE cake, with no recipe, no mix, and very little effort.


For example, a couple of days ago I whipped up a batch of brownie batter.  Hmmm, I thought... it seems to be missing something.  What was it missing?  Ahhhhhh... CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE DOUGH!  What could possibly make more sense?!  Dropping spoonfuls of chocolate chip cookie dough into brownie batter... of course!  Eureka!  


Thank God I did not have chocolate frosting fixins because that?  Would have gone on top.  Either way, they were fabulous.  Drool worthy.  Like, oh my god I've died and gone to heaven GOOD.  


And probably 1500000 calories per bite.  


Snap, crackle, pop... (That's the sound of my buttons bursting, my zipper breaking, and the seam in the seat of my pants exploding.)


It's a rainy, muggy Saturday today so what would be more appropriate that spending an hour in a hot kitchen making homemade meatballs, putting them in the crockpot for spaghetti, and oh, I know!  CARAMEL APPLE CAKE FOR DESSERT!  


Bingo, bango...


20 bazillion calories later, my house smells like apple pancakes, oregano, garlic, and bubbling marinara sauce.  It's also a thousand degrees in here.  


But I'm powerless to stop because...


I think I need to make homemade Italian herb rolls.  


Meanwhile, somewhere in a parallel universe, there is a very thin, unemployed woman opening up a can of Spaghetti-O's while her hipbones wear a hole in her size 1 jeans.  The Real Housewives of Orange County is playing in the background, and her cup of black coffee is growing cold on her end table.  Her crockpot is still in the box it came in, there is only a spray bottle of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter in her fridge, and the only dessert in her pantry is a stale, half-eaten box of Nilla Wafers.  


(I hate her.)  


Also?  I really, really, REALLY need to trade places with her until I get a job.   


Or maybe I should just buy bigger sweatpants and write a cookbook?  


Decisions, decisions...