Dead Meat

​It is a cozy Saturday night, and I am realizing my trash goes out every week more than I do. Yet, with a wine glass in hand and a blanket of contentment hugging my inner soul, thoughts are bouncing around in my head like raindrops in a mud puddle. Even though I am awash in a jumble of emotional baggage, I am one very satisfied lady. Imagine that.
 
So, what brought on this mood? Isn’t it funny how forgotten memories sometimes appear magically in your mind like someone suddenly flipped on a light switch? Out of nowhere, I remembered a hysterical story about a slice of lemon pound cake.
 
It was probably early 1981 and I was delighted to have a small dinner party in my amazing sublet in the hills of San Francisco. The dining table was in an alcove surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows with a breathtaking view of the city. Strangely, I do not remember what was on the menu, but I do recall I made the best lemon pound cake ever for dessert.
 
My significant other and I nibbled away at what remained all weekend constantly declaring its decadence with every bite. It was so very moist with the perfect tang of lemon. Only one slice remained by Monday morning. What once covered an entire wooden cutting board now looked like a lonely wedge of aluminum foil lost on the counter.
 
It was not until 5:00 on that Monday afternoon I remembered it existed. All the way home from work my mouth watered for that last piece of cake and I silently prayed to be the first one home – and I was. I dropped all my belongings at the door and rushed to the kitchen. It was still on the counter. With thoughtful reverence, I bowed my head in thanks to the Cake Gods for my great fortune.
 
I opened the aluminum foil ever so gently with the respect it deserved, and there it was – a piece of stale French bread cut to look like the last wedge of lemon pound cake. Once the crushing disappointment waned, I had only one thought. That man is dead meat.
 
But it was funny. And I have not thought of that moment for a very long time. Memories are sometimes the bloodline to our sanity, don’t you think? No matter how fragile you might feel at any given time, I believe your subconscious serves up its own concoction of lemon pound cake to rescue you.
 
Of course, there was also the one time I made a strawberry jello poke cake when my in-laws were visiting. It was so disgusting that no one could eat it. My sweet mother-in-law playfully perpetuated the misstep on every future visit: “Please make us your famous jello cake, please, please?” I loved that woman, bless her heart. It is memories, I tell you, that calm the storms in your soul.
 
But geez, now I want lemon pound cake and all I have is tasteless green jello. I guess another glass of wine will have to suffice. Oh the sacrifices we must make. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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