Yes, sweets will do in a pinch and -- while I do like a pinch -- I just don't perseverate over sweet things while drifting off to sleep. I have never dreamt about waking up early to eat more Kozy Shack Tapioca Pudding, pleading with God and gleefully hoping, praying that morning will come soon -- like the non-Greek kids who used to wait for Santa to deliver the cheap, old toys to them, after he had delivered all the good, new, expensive ones to the Greek kids like me on Christmas Eve. I preserve this sort of fantasy nirvana for savory foods, salty snacks, crispy treats and Spanakopita. Don't get near me when I've got meatloaf or your arms might be yanked off your skinny little body from the vacuum I can create when hungry.
But yesterday a patient brought in a cheesecake and I was there -- God was watching over me for some reason. That cheesecake looked marvelous. It was a Golden Girls episode with a serious problem for Dorothy, Blanche and Rose to resolve late at night.
This cheesecake was the mother of all cheesecakes -- at least 20 pounds, as heavy as an adult man's bowling ball for a weekend league and as big around as the bucket chairs from Germany that are in our living room. Pure creamy white cheesecake with a moist graham cracker/caramel crust and, spread out all over on the tippy top in thick, lavish layers of strawberries, ripe and moist and fresh and covered with a luxurious syrupy gooey glaze. It was the Mona fucking Lisa of cheesecakes.
The patient, she said, had baked it herself which was believable because she is a professional pastry chef. From the looks alone, I wanted to eat, lick, suck, devour, chow down on, gorge, have sex with and marrythis cheesecake. I wanted to have its babies.
But, ever the closet eater, I played it off. I was coy, sly, cagey like a fox. I told myself and the others that "sweets just aren't my thing." Nobody believed me.
"Don't you want just a little piece, Lew?"
"No, I'm okay."
But the reality of the situation was that the chemical reaction in my body had already begun. I couldn't focus. I was slurring my words. My heart raced. My mouth watered. There were beads of sweat on my upper lip. My sphincter tightened -- if only my bulging stomach could -- and I licked my lips to myself once I turned the corner into the bathroom, the wheels already beginning to turn.
I pulled my pants down and sat on the pot but certainly didn't have to poop or pee. I just needed to clear my head, I needed a plan. Inside, I was going crazy -- outside, well, I was sitting on the toilet with my pants around my thick ankles. Maybe this would pass, I stupidly hoped.
But, it didn't. The longer I sat on the pot, the more I fixated on that cheesecake. No words came to my mind, no real plan of attack was obvious. All I could see, focus on and think of was that damn cheesecake. It got bigger and bigger in the windmills of my mind until that was all I saw, all I thought of. It was talking to me, whispering my name. "Lew," it said breathlessly, a sweet grin on its succulent face, "come and eat me. You know I'll taste good and make you feel like someone loves you." It was so fucking beautiful I thought I might pee. Luckily I was in the right place at the right time.
I flushed and washed my hands. "A-B-C-D-E-F-G" and so on -- just like Stella had taught me as a child so long ago. The alphabet and the tune came to me through rote memorization, my mom watching to make sure I didn't rush the Stella-approved hand washing technique. I dried and sprayed a little Glade -- hey, old habits die hard.
When I opened the door, the break room was empty -- oh Thank God!!! -- except for the cheesecake, 3 Chinet plates, some clear plastic forks. And my own conscience. "Fuck it," I said, giving in sadly to my lack of will power. I looked around and made sure everyone else was busy. Patty was on the phone. Jerry and the others were in Operatory 1 draining a fistula or measuring a particularly beautiful pontic.
I went about my business quickly, my steady hands belying my thrill at imminent eating. I cut myself a huge piece, licked the knife and walked quickly to Jerry's office. Once there, I put the plate behind the stack of papers to be shred so my cheesecake wasn't so obvious if someone walked in. SHIT, did I bring a fucking fork? "Yes, it's in my back pocket." Good, now slow down, breathe, focus. Savor.
And then I ate. Slowly at first -- carving thin layers of decadent cheesecake with the clear plastic fork, then sliding them bit by bit into my mouth. Gliding the sinfully diverse combination of cream cheese, sugar, condensed milk, vanilla extract, juice of 2 lemons and 6 eggs around in my mouth -- but then faster and faster, always glancing toward the door to see if anyone was watching, anyone could see me eating. Nobody. I laughed to myself and threw my head back, intoxicated by the liquor of this incredible moment.
"What a fool I am" I chastised myself "for not eating cheesecake all the time." I had made it before and had an excellent recipe for chocolate cheesecake in particular. I can make it again tonight. "I will," I promised myself. But I knew I wouldn't. I was just talking to the air.
After the first piece was gone, the others went more easily. I don't actually know how many pieces of that cheesecake I ate -- or how long I kept eating -- but, when my binge was over, it was dark outside and there were no patients left in the office. The only sounds in Jerry's dental office were the whir of the air compressor and the vacuum. Oh yeh, and my stomach expanding and stretching to hold what must have been 2 pounds of damn cheesecake I had eaten during my food blackout. I could hear my own belt moaning in pain. Clearly and stupidly, I had ignored my own personal rule of thumb -- never eat anything bigger than your own head. This clearly rivaled the 2 1/2 pounds of brisket and who knows how much potato salad that I had consumed all by myself -- during my own personal food orgy -- while cleaning up after our 4th of July party in 1997. Jerry had fallen asleep thankfully -- that's called opportunity. I was in heaven then and I was in heaven now. How I hated myself and loved myself, all at the same time. Did I want a cigarette? No, I'd probably just eat it.
I was sick to my stomach and needed to poop or vomit. Or both. I felt ashamed of myself even though God had never even tried to grant me the power to stop what I had just done. Is it really a sin if you have no choice? I was helpless. I couldn't avoid that cheesecake just like I couldn't turn my back on the resurrection.
And then later I got sick and slept for 3 hours, my left leg thrown over the back of the couch at home. I don't really know how I got there. I was still in my clothes. I was tired and satisfied. Like Mitt Romney in New Hampshire, I felt full.
I once asked a Mormon friend of mine when his church had stopped practicing polygamy. Without hesitation, he replied "We stopped somewhere around 1890 because the Lord had seen our obedience in the face of intense and unrelenting persecution and said 'It is enough.' " When, oh when, dear Lord, will you mercifully say the same thing to me about cheesecake?
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