Sugar Sugar and a Red Velvet Cake

Sugar.  You and I have a long history.  I was delivered in the hallway to the delivery room, screaming for dessert.  It wasn't yet six in the morning.  My mom offered her breast and I suckled and tasted sweet.  It could have been the candy drawer she keeps to this day.  I didn't 'lick it off the ground,' as my husband often says.  Sugar is my fuel and my nemesis.  Surrounded by a bunch of hippies, it doesn't get me far.  But oozing Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookies on a Friday night, pulled from the oven just as my dear overworked roommate in New York walked in the door, made me instant friends.  I believe it also secured a few boyfriends, perhaps a husband !  Those boys in New York aren't used to a chick who can hold her own on a trading floor AND bake a pie, crust included, from scratch.  "Would you like that a la mode with this Bourbon Raisin Ice Cream I just threw together?

And then I felt sufficiently pleasured

I'm not sure all this cooking is good for me.  I'm not talking about my liberal attitude towards butter, sugar, oil, anything fatty or high calorie.  I could care less if it adds to my love handles.  Love me more then.  But spending an entire afternoon perfecting old fashioned sea foam candy, listening to Nicaraguan folklore music, that suggests neurosis.  I'm not sure if all the years slaving to the man is the culprit, or if it's simply in my genes to act this way.  But sometimes, I can't stop.  I have all the time in the world and yet not enough of it.  I've taken to practicing yoga for twenty (if I can manage it that long) minutes, several mornings of the week.  The calm that prevails after these sessions lasts for about the amount of time I spent doing it (extra if I hold the headstand longer).  If I don't feel exhausted, something is amiss.  Must stand longer over the stove, bake more, preserve more, grow more, pick more.  It's type A liberal hipster hell here on Minnow Creek Lane.  It shouldn't happen; and yet it does. Perhaps, in a more positive spin, I simply need to create. As a childless 30-something year old, spare me your psychological interpretations.  You just wait and see; a baby isn't going to change much here except for diapers and homemade baby food.