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?

Indignant For Dad

Hey Pops, how are you today?

I haven't written in a while; sorry about that. But an event has sprung up which, I find, infuriates me on your behalf, and reminds me to write.

You remember the Choco Taco ice cream treat from Klondike? The one you loved so much? Well, they've gone and discontinued it. You can't get them anymore. It's all here: Choco Taco gone

Can you believe that? I always thought they were quite popular. Now: poof, no longer available.

I know you're not indignant about it from where you are. You can't be, and that's how it is. How it should be. So I'll be indignant for you here on Earth. That won't hurt my chances in Eternity too much, will it?

Until next time,

Marty 

Butter and bologna

Me Pops was a simple eater with a simple diet. Burgers, hot dogs, and pizza were high on his list. He was big on fish, which is not a surprise seeing as he was a Catholic raised in the days when all Fridays were, for Churchgoers, meatless.

He loved Mom's spaghetti the most. I'm not saying this to get maudlin, but his last meal at home was her spaghetti. I believe that was good and proper, an alignment of the planets if you will. He loved her fried chicken, regularly lamenting that she didn't make it often enough. I'm with Dad on that, Mom. I wish you'd have made it more.

I don't think he had any unusual food choices. Perhaps the closest if it counts at all was butter and bologna sandwiches. He loved buttered bread, and I remember him having butter and bologna sandwiches quite often. And you know what? It ain't a bad sandwich combo.

Until recently it had been years since I thought of it. But in the last week it's made up my lunch three times. Bologna was on sale at the nearby supermarket so I bought some. When I got home, I saw that we had butter. The light went on above my head. I wonder if Dad's old sandwich recipe was all that? I wondered aloud in my kitchen.

It was.