Sweet Tooth

No one can deny I have a sweet tooth. A horrible one at that. She screams at me all night long with sighs for the vanilla bean ice cream seated all alone in the freezer. She punches at my abdomen in the morning and won't stop the abuse until I quiet her with whole wheat waffles topped with maple syrup and some sort of berry preserve. After a late lunch I can only get her sobbing to stop when I dunk a chocolate biscotti in a cup of coffee (iced now that the weather has finally turned).

But she shocked me the other day with nary a peep in the early hours of the morning. I went to the kitchen and tried to entice her to some semblance of existence with a vanilla almond granola topped with cinnamon and ginger. No biting. I went for the flax seed cereal swimming in soy milk instead. Catatonic I swear she was. No matter what I attempted to do to bring her back to life, she was gone.

And so I listened. And that day I gave myself nothing but savory. The next morning I was anxious to try a savory breakfast. I had left over spinach from the lunch the day prior. I had eggs. I had fresh goat cheese. And I wanted to combine the three (with some other spices) in my cute little white ramekin and put it in the oven to cook oh so slowly and carefully to leave that "it's oh so yellow it is almost orange" yolk just slightly running to spoon over the slice of whole wheat toast I had laying beside it in the oven. But, no. The next morning I instead listened to the desires of a stronger stomach who wanted my infamous waffles. I relented. And skipped the berry preserves and most of the maple syrup.

The next time I could attempt the egg spinach piece of delectableness, the other stomach ordered me out of the kitchen, into the living room, to check on the latest news, while it cooked me a breakfast of pancakes (the stomach's first attempt at pancakes sans the assistance of Bisquick). Don't get me wrong. I scooped up every piece of pancake and am desperately looking forward to indulging in the remaining cakes with some grated apples and a strong cup of coffee tomorrow morning.

What was I to do? Now the sweet tooth was yelling at me. But not in any attempt to entice me to satiate her unending desire but to get me to put the sugar away and pour salt straight into my body. Did I listen? No. I had a cupcake and told her to quit her complaining.

And then I came home. And I was hungry. And I had an egg. And I
had spinach. And some fresh goat cheese. And a slice of whole wheat toast nestled softly beside it in the toasting oven. And she sighed. And she ooohed. And she ahhhhed. And she slept.

But then a crucial error was made. As I walked out of the kitchen my eye caught the ripening bananas on my pantry shelves. And the sweet tooth reached her arms out, grabbed hold of the walls of the archway leading out of the tempting area and refused to let go. There were bananas that were going to go bad. Sweet, beautiful bananas that needed attention. She would not let me leave. She went through my brain: bread pudding, cupcakes, wait until tomorrow and eat with the left over pancakes, cupcakes, cupcakes, cupcakes.

I could not not listen. The cupcakes are now cooling. Not just banana. But banana coconut. And there might even be a banana rum coconut frosting in the fridge waiting for application. But even she thinks that might be a little too sweet and might be best with waiting for another banana to be procured, mashed, and added.