TWD: Cinnamon Crumb Cake (not a square in sight)

There are a few things you can count on in life, more than just death and taxes. Like getting a tickle in your throat during a job interview. Having your dog take a crap right in front of the man of your dreams.

Realizing that you don't have half the ingredients to make cinnamon squares at 6am on the day you need to make cinnamon squares.

And so you adapt. And you make that square thing into a coffee cake. I've never really been a big fan of coffee cakes. I just can't understand why they're necessary. Cakey and crumbly, they always seem like something that's not going to satisfy you through the morning when what you should really be eating is eggs over easy, oatmeal with raisins, a smoothie. And the fact that coffee cakes generally don't involve coffee in the recipes always annoyed me. Why can't we make a green tea cake? Or a hot chocolate cake? Even better, a hot toddy cake. Now that is something I'd eat.


So this morning, at 6am when I woke up to make the cake, I thought about all the different ways we adapt to our surroundings, come to recognize things for what they are, enjoy them to whatever extent possible. The coffee cake that I've never really been a fan of became the cake I'll most likely make to impress friends the next time I have any. I mean, the grated orange zest, although somewhat overpowering, is enough to make someone say audibly, "I always thought coffee cakes were what you took to a nursing home on Sundays, but MacDuff's orange thingy the other day, well, that's something I'd eat on a regular basis."

Because really, coffee cakes are experiments with something that should really be wrong, but then end up kind of changing our minds. I'm not a cake-in-the-morning eater, and I've often thought that I could really use a diet from this whole TWD experiment. But I got up early this morning, forsaking my oatmeal and peanut butter to eat some coffee cake, and you know, I can see why we bring them to nursing homes on the weekends.


This week has been full of surprises. I realize that if you've been reading my blog, my last two posts are going to seem horribly orally-fixated. And that's unintentional. But I came to realize this weekend that sometimes the biggest surprises, those situations when you anticipate your emotional reaction to be extremist, you find that things don't really upset you. Sometimes you are saved by an emotional calm that makes you wonder whether or not there was anything to be surprised by in the first place.

This comes off the tail end of a weekend when I spent doing that which I love to do, that is, sail with a really hot guy on open water. We raced up in Marblehead, spending the night at a friend's house that overlooked the water, eating fried clams and drinking rum and pineapples. When we fell asleep that night, the smell of salt water came in through our open window. The next morning, another family friend created a breakfast spread that would rival any upscale brunch, and we sat on the porch in the sunshine thinking about how great the spring is. We walked on the beach and collected sea shells.


Sounds lovely, doesn't it? Well, then my dog, the incorrigible Dixie Lu, decided to roll in organic compost. I can only imagine she thought to herself "This is like poop, only better." We managed to give her a bath, but the car ride home was a little rough. I kept thinking to myself that her whole existence must be to humiliate me - I mean, it's not like she lives to watch Days of Our Lives or anything.

We were going to a friend's barbecue that afternoon, and while we were driving over to her apartment, The Lawyer from Southie informed me that a girl he had dated briefly would be attending the same barbecue.

Now, I don't care who you are. When you hear those words from someone you're dating, your first thought is "I'm going to have to fight someone to the death. Where did I leave my shiv?"

There is no way you can expect to feel anything other than insufficient. The other woman doesn't even have to be anyone special. She could be totally lame and you would still be thinking to yourself "I need to get back into yoga." I completely realize this, because when I look at my list of exes, I can see a direct progression of Aiming Low during 2004-2007, specifically. There's a definite check list I must have gone through in my mid-20s: overweight? Unemployed? Living with your parents? Backne? Questionable sexual preference? Thin hair? OR NO HAIR AT ALL??? AWESOME. Let's get serious. When I tell you about my exes, you don't have any reason to get intimidated. But at the same time, I'm never going to put you in a broken elevator with them.



We got to the barbecue, and everyone was already partying pretty hard. The band Phish was playing later that afternoon, and everyone was "pre-gaming." I was a little nervous walking in, but as we made our way back to the yard, there was a woman who said hi and chatted for a few minutes. I immediately pegged her as THE ONE I WILL FIGHT TO THE DEATH. I don't know why - she didn't look anything like me, but I just knew it had to be her. But instead of having a bad reaction, she was actually pretty cool, and sent us upstairs to find the free beer and food. So, no go on the fight to the death. We met other people, I had a really lovely time. Old Dixie Poo underneath me was really smelling, despite the bath The Lawyer from Southie gave her back in Marblehead. The organic compost was proving to be a very strong scent, I could see why she would love it.

About an hour went by, and I got a chance to catch up with people I really like and find interesting. There was no shenking. I did not throw any plates, I did not pull anyone's pink hair. At one point, however, I heard The One cooing over Dixie. I'm sure Dixie had just eaten some grass, dug up a dead squirrel, something to embarrass the hell out of me. I turned my head to look and see what was going on, and I watched in horror as The One knelt down, took Dixie's head in her hands, and full on French kissed my dog.

My Dog. Dixie, the Licker of Buttholes. The Taster of Feet. The Epicurean of All Things Deceased. She French kissed a face that had only hours earlier been reveling in organic compost and goose droppings.

Now, ok. My dog totally and completely saved me. Because while it is EXTREMELY awkward to be at a party with a woman who has made out with both the man you are smitten for AND YOUR DOG, the fact that Dixie parted her lips and shoved that rancid tongue down The One's mouth made me laugh out loud. It made me think to myself "Despite the size of my thighs, I have never French kissed the dog of my ex's new girlfriend at a party." And there is something to be said for that. The two of them parted, Dixie sat down and stuck one leg up in the air and sniffed her butt, then came running over to see me, all proud of herself. I gave her the rest of my pasta salad. Good dog.

And that is like coffee cake. Surprises you every time.