The women at work were discussing donuts.
Two boxes of Krispy Kremes had appeared on the kitchen table, seemingly out of nowhere.
-I don't even see those.
-See what?
-Exactly.
-They're not even the kind I like.
-What kind are they?
-The ones with the chocolate icing and that stuff ...
-Custard?
-Yeah, the custard in the middle.
Me: (Shrilly inserting myself into the conversation as I can rarely resist doing.) I don't eat the ones with the custard centers. I don't believe in them. YOU ARE A DONUT. YOU DON'T ALSO NEED TO BE A BOWL OF PUDDING.
We ask too much of our food.
Larry brought home a pair of Gigi's Cupcakes the other night (leftovers from a school function), and the frosting-to-cake ratio was so obscene, it was as if Black Beauty herself had ingested a bucket of glitter and painstakingly beshat each one.
Which is not to say I didn't eat one. My strong donut morals, apparently, don't transfer onto cake. Even when the cake looks like Carmen Miranda.
