Velvety Victory

In my last post, I bonded with quite a few of you over my struggle with/addiction to sugar.  I am so grateful for the beautiful, supportive response I received.

I've done well so far, even when the boxes of Girl Scout crackies I ordered pre-detox started rolling in.  I quietly accepted the boxes of speed balls, keeping my cool even when I was tempted to slap the thankful grin off of the cute little pushers' faces as they accepted my money.

Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do.

Honestly, it's been almost easy to avoid sugar.  Every day, I've felt strong.  In control.  Awesome.

Except for one day.  The day I was asked to bake a red velvet cake for Sunday dinner.

You see, I am famous for my red velvet cake (though I can't take all the credit; it's Paula Deen's recipe).  My dad, anticipating his birthday red velvet cake in May, starts salivating at the thought of it in early April.

What would you have done?  Run screaming into the hills, apron trailing behind you, turning back every so often to make sure the Evil Crystals weren't following closely, nipping at your heels with their sugar-cube teeth?

I thought about it.  For quite a while.

And then I decided to show that over-refined bitch who was boss.

Knowing I wouldn't get to enjoy the end product, I went into this challenge with a different mindset:  Enjoy the process.  Savor the moment.  Use all of my other senses to experience the cake without tasting it.

I dive in.

Butter and sugar:  The sound changes from grainy grinding to smooth, airy creaming.

Eggs:  Yellow ribbons stretching and bowing, folding delicately into the batter.

Cocoa powder: Smoky, slightly acidic smell.  Earthy.  Darkens the batter just a bit.

Food coloring:  Magic happens.  Batter goes from buttery yellow, to tie-dye explosion, to smooth crimson.  Understand why they call it red velvet.

Flour and salt:  Crank the old-fashioned sifter.  A simple wire circle transforms bulky clumps of ground wheat into a powdery cloud.  Genius.  Simple.  Beautiful.

Buttermilk: Deep inhalation.  That's where the delicious tangy flavor comes from.  There it is.  Now I know.

Flour.  Buttermilk.  Flour.  Buttermilk.  Flour.  Always finish with buttermilk.  Personal rule.

Vanilla:  Another deep breath.  Floral, yet grounded.  I remember my dad putting vanilla in our scrambled eggs when we were kids.  Drip, drop.  Just enough to bring everything together.

Baking soda and vinegar:  Elementary science projects.  War is about to be waged.  Clear liquid on one side, white powder on the other.  At the front lines, the two hiss together to make battling bubbles.  Cake will be airy, yet somehow dense.  Culinary magic.

Suddenly, this isn't just batter.  It is a living, breathing organism.  Bubbling, mixing, and creating.  It's gorgeous.

I note the beautiful curves created by the paddle.  Like a thick sea of red.  A creamy blanket, tangy with just a hint of chocolate air.  Fat, sticky fingers clinging to the sides of the paddle, yet so happy to let go so they can become what they were meant to be.

The cake bakes.

It cools.

I frost it.  I am so close.  And then I am almost undone.  By this:

A fallen soldier.  A dollop of frosting that didn't quite make it to the cake.  The muscles in my right hand automatically contract, ready to deftly scoop up the wounded comrade and sweep it into the comforts of my mouth.

I actually start salivating.  Suddenly, I cry out, "Uh-oh!  Uh-oh!" like Rain Man when he was going to miss The People's Court.

The Sous Chef knows what is happening immediately.  His voice rescues me, calling to me from the living room, "Come out here!  It's safe out here!"

I retreat.  But only for a moment.  Long enough to remember my secret weapon: a wet cloth.  One swipe later, and that temptress is nothing more than soggy, watered-down mush.

By the end of the process, I was feeling many things - things I hadn't felt before, because I was so focused on licking the bowl.

Feelings like:

Amazement - at the delicate simplicity of baking.

Pride - at my ability to not only control my impulses, but move past them and appreciate what else was happening in the moment.

Anticipation - at the thought of my family enjoying my gift.

Resolution - I had created this beautiful treat,  (crack-laden as it was), and I had not sacrificed my personal goals in order to do it.  Job well done.

Mission: accomplished.

And what about my dessert, you ask?  Did I just sit there silently while my family devoured my day's hard work?  Fear not, dear friends, I had it covered:

Sweet strawberries.  Tangy balsamic vinegar.  Fresh whipped cream.

And I was perfectly happy.

Eat well.

P.S.  No worries - I'm giving the various boxes of Girl Scout crackies away.