Yesterday was C-Man’s birthday, so his mother made him a carrot cake. And lasagna and a green salad and fruit salad and garlic bread, because food is love. (Or because she thinks 12 people live in our house? I can never tell.)
I am not eating any of the carrot cake.
I have finally decided, after years of confusion and good faith effort, that I do not like carrot cake enough to waste time or calories on it. “It’s there” is not a sufficiently good reason to eat something, particularly not something that’s supposed to be a treat. What, pray tell, is the point of eating cake if I’m going to spend the whole time I’m eating cake thinking “I really should like this more than I do, everyone else likes this, but I kind of wish I were drinking a glass of water instead.”
So, I will not be eating any carrot cake.
I make no promises about the leftover icing in the fridge, though, particularly since we have graham crackers in the pantry.
I once heard a quote that went something like, “The higher your nose is in the air about food, the smaller your butt will be.” So I think it’s perfectly OK to be a snob when it comes to carrot cake.
(I only like the kind with raisins.)
I’m sure carrot cake is fine. I’m not trying to give it an inferiority complex. But just like banana bread and marinara sauce, I’m just not feeling the love. More for those of you who actually appreciate it, I guess.
My tendency towards carrot cake is to eat only the frosting, as it is the only part I find “worth it.” Therefore, I strongly suggest you raid your fridge with a spoon. Or, you know, a graham cracker.
I am indifferent to it too.
I think I do, every few years, actually really want a slice when it’s presented. But the frosting must be the very best. and sometimes they cram the “cake” so full of nuts and raisins I think it should be called something else besides cake.
However, I’ll take your portions of marinara any day.