On Tuna Casserole and Carrot Cake

As a child I was a picky eater, a title I took very seriously. The list of foodstuffs that I considered  verboten was vast and included but was not limited to fish, potatoes (unless McDonald's had a hand in their preparation), nuts, most all vegetables, beans and  a bevy of other items. Textures were important too. Too mealy? Barf city. Too lumpy? Pass. Lumpy and mealy? It was headed straight for my napkin or the bottom of my milk glass.

Holidays were particularly painful. A whole buffet of grenade-laden foods and an audience of 15 gajillion adults making sure I ate it all. Oh, sometimes I could get away with eating around the celery in the jello mold or skillfully "forgetting" to take a scoop of mashed potatoes as it floated by. But my best bet was 'falling asleep' before dinner so I could just avoid it all. Merciful the times I was allowed to lie there limply, listening to the din of plates and forks clinking and the grown-ups chuckling, "She fell asleep...again."

I guess I never cared much for any kind of food, really. Sure, I'd eat cheetos and koolaid and candy bars like any kid. But I was never tempted by desserts; too often I would sample a brownie or cookie and find a hidden poisonous nut, dried fruit or worse.

Some of my most terrifying childhood memories revolve around run-ins with despicable food items: those powdery, dry, tasteless Mexican wedding cakes.  Scalloped potatoes.  I still can't even think about canned tuna or tuna casserole without feeling slightly ill. Tuna, peas and white sauce? A picky eaters Kryptonite!

(Writing that solidifies the fact that I had a pretty charmed life, I mean really? Potato chips and tuna were the worst thing that happened to me?)

Even when presented with a bowl of M&Ms,  I could always walk away after a handful or two. I never understood a person's inability to stop eating from a bag of chips or a plate of cake. I liked chocolate as much as the next gal, but I never craved it the way other people claimed. I don't think I'd ever craved anything. Wanted, sure. But craved? That seemed a foreign concept.

But friends, that all changed about 4 years ago. Perhaps you'll recall that this time frame coincides with the arrival of my firstborn? Well, it does. Ever since, I can and will devour an entire bag of M&M's, evenwhenIdon'twantanymore. I will openly admit I consider Little Debbie's Cosmic Brownies and acceptable food source when in the throes of a chocolate deficiency. I mean, ew. But, still I'll eat 'em. It's food, people. Don't judge me. I know. I HAVE NO SHAME. I've surrendered my appetite and stretched the limits of my stomach capacity to items that should be honored classified as"food." I know, stay with me, I'm going somewhere.

And, here we are.As you can imagine, with the impending arrival of Jost numero tres, I seem to have become even more slave to my sweet tooth. Ladies and gents, I present to you my piece de resistance:

That there is a box. Inside that box was a four-layer carrot cake. FOUR LAYERS. Which meant that even a two inch slice produced far more cake and lucious, lucious cream cheese frosting than any person is meant to eat. But eat it though I did. And now, all that remains are the stinky, stale crumbs and edge pieces that took on a too-long-in-the-fridge kind of a taste. Don't think that I will stop there. I can't be stopped. Come lunch time I will probably be sobbing, licking the golden cakeboard and dreaming about the day Patrick brought it home from work.

Which if you must know,

was Tuesday.