If I weren’t married and if it were legal to wed a dessert . . . well you know the rest.
Some of the best cheesecake I savor is acquired at The Cheese Cake Factory restaurant, which I happened to be at not too long ago. Unable to resist an overwhelming cheesecake compulsion, I had scooped the family into the Explorer and headed into the cement jungle of lower downtown (LoDo). I drove around the maze of one way streets for much too long looking for an open meter only to ransom a kidney at a pricey lot. After an eternal wait we were seated and I executed my strategy for maximum cheesecake conquest. We waived any entrées and went right for the booty. My two girls and my wife each ordered a wedge and I . . . I had two. Yes two! I couldn’t finish the swollen morsels of decadence though – they were at least a pound apiece. To top it off I ordered two more pieces to-go. Happily toting my horded wealth out the door I chanted, “Glut-ton-y, glut-ton-y. It’s for me, it’s for me!” I was happy as a lark. Until . . .
“Hey mister do you have any spare change?” There before me, just outside the restaurant, was a group of teenage skaters. They looked like they hadn’t eaten in a while and I got the impression they spent a lot of time on the street. The young man who approached me was very respectful and just plain . . . nice. I disliked him for being well mannered.
Knowing I didn’t have any cash with me I was hit with the realization that the only thing I had of value that I could offer them was . . . MY CHEESE CAKE. AAAAUUUUHHHHG! My two and a half pieces of delight, my spoils of a hard fought battle, the only sustenance that would get me through the desert of stale, value priced cookies. MY CHEESECAKE! My, mine, me, mine.
“All I have is this cheesecake if you want it.” I couldn’t believe I heard me say that. It shocked me like a person suddenly speaking who you don’t know is standing right next to you. But it was me. Then I saw my arm extending out to them the fancy to-go bag, with the Cheesecake Factory logo on the side, that I had clutched in my hand. I was having the most horrifying out-of-body experience. I so wanted it to end.
Well, end it did. With me looking back over my shoulder at a pack of skaters massacring my poor defenseless desserts. That night I wasn’t a cheerful giver. I was a hateful giver. Did my generosity count with God – nope. So I ended up not getting any credit for my charity and losing my cherished cheesecake.
To top it off I swear I could almost audibly hear God’s mocking whisper, “Glut-ton-y, glut-ton-y . . .”