It was a killer birthday cake: homemade cake, rich with sour cream, filled with a rum ganache, and frosted with a custard-style chocolate frosting.
And I wasn’t interested in eating any more. I’d had enough. A big piece on my birthday, and I threw part away. The next day I ate it for breakfast, and threw part away. No binge, no obsession.
On Monday I came home from work and ate another piece, finally cutting a small enough piece that I didn’t need to throw any away. DD ate along whenever she wanted a piece, too.
This cake was endless. Even after it fell a bit, and I had to cut off almost a third of it and toss it just to make it look good, there was always cake left.
I finally resorted to slicing off the dry edges, because I only wanted to eat the best bits.
While still at work today I decided I’d just throw the rest away, because I was sick of it, and it was getting too dry to enjoy.
But I didn’t have to, because my human food vacuum of a teenage daughter finished at least 2 pieces today, and when I arrived home, there was nothing left but the last dry edges.
Normal eating is a good thing.
