Spice Cake

At the end of my walk yesterday morning I stepped into the nearby gas station party store to buy a Sunday paper. I like to do the crossword puzzles as well as the Sudoku and such, typically only about half succeeding with any of the games. But it's become a habit. I need my Sunday newspaper fix. The withdrawal when I miss it is ugly.

As is it only fitting to counteract the benefits of exercise with sugary treats, I examined the snack aisle, selecting carrot cake. Arriving back home, I ate it with black coffee as I read the comics, and it was good. But it wasn't what I wanted. I wanted spice cake.

Me Pops used to buy spice cake all the time. He loved it. The ones he bought were triple tiered, which if I remember rightly had cream cheese icing on top and between layers. I'm not sure why it was called spice cake, because it wasn't spicy in the sense of, say, chili, or other hot foods where you would normally expect spice. Dad's spice cake was more tangy. It had something of a bite which cakes normally don't have.

I used to see it all the time in the stores. Now, I can't remember when. To be sure, there are recipes for it online. Yet would they be like me Pop's old treat?

Maybe I'll actually try baking one one day. 

Nah, who am I fooling? I'll just double down on finding one in a store as I shop over the coming weeks. It's probably just sentimental that I want one at all. But nothing wrong with that, right?

No to new things

I don't like trying new things. Do you want to know why I don't like trying new things? Do you really?

Since you asked, I shall tell you.

When I was last in Hessel over the Fourth of July holiday last month I strolled down to the Farmer's Market. They have it every Sunday during the summer in Hessel, from 10 until 2, and it's roughly the equivalent of about one and a half city blocks from our place in town. An easy, a very easy, Marty walk.

A baker from Rudyard was there then. She had among other things a most excellent carrot cake. It had close to an inch of marvelous buttercream frosting too and was absolutely delightful. Grudgingly sharing it with my family whom I was with (I merit sainthood for that act alone) they too agreed that it was exceptional.

So yesterday arrives, maybe five weeks after that particular Farmer's market, and I am in Hessel. I simply cannot wait for Sunday to arrive, anticipating like Pavlov's dog a slab of that carrot cake which I might delight in all to my lonesome. With hot coffee because, of course, heavenly carrot cake (with thick buttercream frosting), cannot be savored completely without hot coffee. My tongue lathered at the very thought.

Rudyard baker was not there. I may never partake of her carrot cake again, I now solemnly realize. C'est la vie, opines philosophical Marty. Such is life.

And that is why I don't like trying new things,. You may adore them then, like a tease, they are no more.

The stubborn carrot cake

I found myself waiting for my brother at the mechanic this morning, and the mechanic had a snack machine, and the snack machine had carrot cake. And I wanted carrot cake.

I pull a dollar out of my wallet and the machine feeds it back to me. I folded the dollar and reinserted it. The machine resent it. I folded the dollar another way...the machine did not like that way either.

I tried another dollar. The machine tried my patience.

After the third dollar wouldn't work, I gave up. I didn't want the stupid, moist carrot cake with the lovely cream cheese incing anyway. Nope. Didn't want it. Not at all.

I wonder if the party store has carrot cake. I'll have to check when it opens.