I Swear She’s Trying To Kill Me

After dinner this evening, my wife announced that it was time for dessert.  And then she walked over to the counter, took the topper off of a large Tupperware cake plate and revealed the most horrifyingly massive cake I have ever seen.

Layers, yummy layers. I would take any one of these by itself.

As my blood glucose level spiked just looking at this thing, I worked up the nerve to ask “What’s that?”  My voice curled up on the second word.  She just continued to slice this baby up methodically.  After a short period of time she lifted her eyes, stared into my soul, and said “It’s a S’more’s cake.”

It turns out that a “S’more’s cake” is really several cakes in one.  So it starts with a layer of brownie, then a giant chocolate chip cookie cake, followed by a cheesecake.  In between each layer was a filling of marshmallow fluff and somewhere, worked in stealthily, was a sliver of graham crackers.  Did I mention that the layers were repeated once and that the whole thing was frosted with a rich chocolate butter cream?

 

 

The finished product!

We sat down — me, my wife, my niece, and my mother-in-law Wilma — and ate.  Everyone else feigned not being able to get through it all.  It was, apparently, too rich.  I don’t know what that means.  You see, when someone puts something like this in front of me, the instinct to finish what I started kicks in.  Five minutes later Wilma was fishing through her handbag for her glucometer.  As my blood quickly turned to a syrupy sludge in my veins I stood up, pounded my chest, and proclaimed “I am the S’mores Cake King!”  Some of the sugar had bypassed my bloodstream and gone straight to my cerebral cortex.  I stood up on the table, thinking I could fly.  I was not at all prepared to be whacked in the head by the ceiling fan.  Man, that thing hurts.  As I was hurled across the room in the direction of the counter where the cake sat I quickly checked my reflexes.  I grabbed the cake, gently moved it out of the way, then slammed into the pantry, head first, and broke all of my teeth, three ribs, and I split the ends of all the hairs on my head.

So none of this actually happened (past the “I ate the cake” bit) but it sure could have given the amount of sugar in this cake.  Which brings me back to my title.  I think she’s trying to kill me.  But then I think, no…  my wife’s more subtle than that.  She’d just whack me in my sleep.  “I don’t know, officer…  He fell asleep ranting about a cake and then sleepwalked to the kitchen, picked up a comically oversized cast iron frying pan, and clocked himself over the head with it.  Check out his iPod.  Seriously?  That much Manilow?  Clearly he was deranged.”

All I’m saying is that if I don’t post tomorrow, you know where to check.

Adore its interior goodness.

Clearly not my piece. It’s too small.

 

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2 responses to “I Swear She’s Trying To Kill Me

  1. It’s obviously not Mrs. Obama’s recipe. Where did your
    wife find it? My chocoholic friend would love it!

  2. Note to Mrs. Harvey: So when you come to visit in May for my birthday, I will be expecting that but with reese’s cups worked in somehow. 🙂

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