When last I wrote, the topic was strawberry shortcake, a birthday cake for my daughter from the most decadent bakery ever to hit Fairfield, CT: Isabelle et Vincent. As soon as Isabelle showed me their handiwork on Saturday, I knew I was in trouble. I could throw all sorts of adjectives at this glorious cake, but perfect sums it up.
And perfect it was. Not like the American version of strawberry shortcake, this one had layers of cake so moist and thin they crumbled in your mouth. The cream was more a rich, pastry cream, and the strawberries, the best in any produce bunch.
I convinced my daughter-in-law to take half of the leftovers home, but since our daughter was going out for the night, half remained in our fridge. Jack was tired, so he went upstairs, while I stayed up, cleaning up the last odds and ends from our feast. It was me and the cake. And that leftover cake was calling my name. I swear I heard it.
I opened the fridge, and was about to dig into the leftovers with a fork that somehow miraculously appeared in my hand when all of a sudden something within me screamed, "Are you kidding?"
Before giving it a second thought, that perfect cake landed in the sink flushed down the garbage disposal. I wish I could say I left it in the fridge and fought temptation, but I can't. Maybe one of these days,; just not now. But I have to admit I was very proud of myself Saturday night.
A small triumph. Good for me.