The New Food Addiction: Molten Lava Cakes

Leave it to Sam’s Club to come up with tasty desserts.

The big box warehouse club is famous for such yummies as angel food cake, quart boxes of strawberries, damned good carrot cake, baklava (during the fall) and other fattening wonders has come up with a new dessert.

Molten Lava Cakes.

Four come to a box, and each is big enough to split. There are two chocolate and two apple/caramel. Forty-five seconds in the microwave, a dollop of ice cream, and folks, it’s as close to heaven as a person can get on earth. Imagine chocolaty goodness with a warm center.

The advent of molten lava cakes is laying waste my plans on slimming down. I wasn’t hoping for swimsuit material, but I at least wanted to fit into my skinny clothes. Right now, I’m in my fat clothes and two and a half pounds away from having to buy a new wardrobe.

I wish I had more willpower, but sadly I must admit to having less than none. In my line of work, and because it’s a mile away, I’m at my local Sam’s Club at least three days a week. That’s because for less than $5 one can buy a rotisserie chicken that makes a meal for a couple of days. The croissants are to die for, and sample weekend is enough so that I don’t have to make lunch on Saturdays.

Since the molten lava cakes are a seasonal item, I can only pray for the season to come to a close.

Soon.

Someone Save Me From Myself

I enjoyed a wonderful Mother’s Day, which included a sumptuous brunch at a local high-brow eatery. Since I’m the mom and it was my day, I decided on the venue. I chose brunch, knowing full well that I wasn’t going to be coerced into cooking dinner. Not on MY DAY, people. I also chose the fancy-schmancy digs because I’ve had their food before. It’s some of the best this major metropolitan area has to offer.

On the way down to brunch, I was entertained by the two other Demonics, Mr. and Ms. Mini-D, who used the twenty minutes in the car to complain. Mr. D remembered our last brunching experience there (back in 1999) as chaotic and crowded. Ms. Mini-D complained that her feet hurt in her new high heels. I just smiled. I was getting my brunch, dammit.

Once we arrived, they were surprised. It wasn’t so crowded (the economy is pretty sucky, who can afford brunch), and they gave us a nice little table for three. There was a live band and we had to pass by the dessert table to get to the ballroom. The smell of chocolate was heavenly and we barely made it into the main dining area.

Brunch is best tackled diplomatically. My modus operandi is to stay away from anything too heavy. I won’t do a made-to-order omelet, just because eating one takes up too much valuable stomach space. I tend to scoop up my portions in tiny little tastes, thus leaving room for more opportunities. Needless to say, (and I’m ashamed to admit this) but this list is just part of what I ate: raw oysters, shrimp cocktail, luncheon meats and cheeses, stone crab claws, Caesar salad, eggs Benedict, sushi, mozzarella and tomato salad, prime rib, mashed potatoes, mixed vegetables, and pasta. Of course, there was an array of desserts, which included teeny-tiny creme brulee, raspberry mousse, chocolate covered strawberries, fondue, and yummy lemon bars. I washed it all down with some good strong coffee and mimosas made with freshly squeezed orange juice and plenty of champagne.

This was not the entire brunch, but is instead a brief run down on just what I ate. There was a lot more that I didn’t even get to. There was more that I ate and forgot. I’m a foodie. I tend to recall the memorable morsels of deliciousness and the more mundane items that neglected to entertain my palate fall off the radar and into the abyss of memory loss.

After engorgement, we went home. The sky opened up and the rain was cold and relentless. We were too bloated for outside activities anyway. My dear Mr. D settled down to watch golf. Ms. Mini-D took up residence in the basement. It was too cold for me to type, so I decided to watch “Mildred Pierce” on an upstairs TV. Joan Crawford starred as the mother who did too much for her snotty, spoiled daughter. Turner Classic Movies decided to make poke fun at mothers on Mother’s Day.

By 3:30, I had dozed off. I’m thinking that cold, rainy weather and dark skies made taking a nap a viable enterprise. When I woke up at 5, I still felt like a fattened pig. I was chock full of tryptophan and champagne, and barely made it downstairs, where Mr. D was yelling at Phil Mickelson and Sergio Garcia.

“I have to go on a diet.” It was all I could say.

“Yeah, tomorrow.” He didn’t even look up. He always says that when I mention dieting.

“No, I’m serious!” I always am, but like food too much.

“Grubble, gruff, maygle…” Mr. D often mutters under his breath. I don’t have a clue what he said, but that’s what it sounded like.

I can tell he’s not going to be very helpful. I’m going to need someone else to help save me from myself.