Here's the thing: it's you, not me. I couldn't believe I fell for your same song and dance. It never fails. I see you from across the room, all dressed in your holiday finery. You start to draw me near. I know I'm the prey and you're hunting me...I hate you for it.
I'm not sure why we do this. We both know how this is going to end: me hating myself in the morning, you sitting all smug in your holiday kitschy glory. Me sick to my stomach, you sparkling with delight. I really hate you for making me go through this every year, damn Christmas dessert from hell!!!!
Yes, I love my sweets and every year, there is one Christmas dinner dessert that literally, makes me sick to my stomach and then leaves me regretting digestion. This year, it was a random cake that someone else made and for lack of better things to do, I decided to munch down. It has now been two days that I have been worshipping porcelain gods. I want to curl up in the fetal position and rock on the cold tile floor. Why do I do this to myself?!
Worse still, the damn cake, which I have no idea what kind if cake it is, is almost looking at me snugly from the kitchen counter, as if to say: I'm wonderful, you can't handle me and that's why I had to poison you. It is mocking me. I can tell. It thinks it's better than me. The way I feel right now, it must be right.
In a moment of strength or perhaps stupidity, I entered the kitchen without the villainous Christmas cake noticing. I snuck up to it and screamed out my frustrations at it: I hate you. We are so done! I'm going to hate myself tomorrow but this is a guilt I can live with. It was all hateful hateful venom spilling from my mouth....and with that, I chucked the smug Christmas cake into the trash can. I DID IT!! I beat it. I'm better than it...damn hateful full-of-arsenic-possibly-hemlock Christmas cake. Granted, I still felt like hell. My stomach was still protesting every step and every drink of water. By sending me to the bathroom continuously. Sigh!
In smug triumph, I walked away from the kitchen, as the trash can lid melodramatically closed in slow motion. I clicked the light switch off and then...I heard it. Damn cake was talking to me as it lay dying a slow death in the trash can, along with the castoffs from our delicious Christmas dinner. I'm imagining it, right? Nope. As I tried to keep my head high, I couldn't help but shiver. The cake, perhaps noticing my slight fear and weakened state, laughed darkly and shouted: I will see you next year!!
I decided not to listen, to walk away. We were breaking up. I was not going to listen to its hateful parting shot. There's no way THIS Christmas cake would come back from the dead. But as I thought back to all the other Christmases where this had happened to me, I couldn't help but think that maybe this crazy yearly break up was being handled by some vengeful ghost. Oh well...better luck next year.
Have you had a crazy holiday food story? Tell the Mamas all about it. ;)
