Last night, at a family birthday dinner, I volunteered to cut the cake.
I’m sure my husband was wondering (worrying?) what on earth I was thinking, but here’s the deal. I was seated next to the birthday boy, and I knew that if he cut the cake:
- I’d be sitting right next to it, watching him cut it.
- He’d cut it really slowly.
- I’d have to make a big deal about not taking a piece of cake.
So, noticing it was taking him an undue amount of time to even start the process, I jumped in to take over. I gave him the first piece, and passed other pieces around to various family members. My husband made eye contact and indicated he didn’t want any, either, so I stopped as soon as everyone else had a piece.
I did not leave any frosting on the cake plate. If there was extra frosting hanging out, I scooped it up and put it on the outbound plate, so everyone got their blobs of frosting. I didn’t use my fingers, so I had no reason to lick them.
As soon as that last plate went to the last person, I got up to wash my hands. I walked slowly to the ladies’ room, lingered, checked email, sent a couple of texts, washed my hands a second time, and sauntered back to the table.
My husband had taken the cake so it was in front of him, not me. Good man.
My very sweet sister-in-law exclaimed not once, but twice, about how the frosting from this bakery was her favorite, and soooooo good. I did not waver. I did not taste it.
And, I did not dream about food last night.