Let them eat cake!

I have no French ancestry that I know of – but I haven’t gone to that site where you send in your DNA sample to find out where you come from. I’m tempted to do that sometimes, but I’m pretty sure they’ll just send me back a note that says, “You’re kidding, right?”
The Swede in me loves freezing weather, long walks to the fridge, and gazing into the eyes of a potato before I bake it (and add lots of sour cream and butter).  I like my humor dry and subtle, with just a hint of sarcasm. I don’t ask too much from life other than a heavy load to lift and plenty of space to complain when things don’t go my way. . . or at least that’s how it seems these days.
What is it that makes me feed cake to the grandchildren when I know they should be eating healthy stuff? Is there something lurking in my childhood memories? Watching that chocolate frosting go onto that cake and knowing it was for ‘later’ and shouldn’t be touched? Denial is such an ugly thing.
We lived far away from everything, growing up. We were 7 miles from town in one direction, and 3 miles from what could be called a town, in the other direction – which is nothing in this day and age.  But when you only went to town once a week for groceries, it seemed so-o-o-o very far away the rest of the time.
Town was shiny and new, it smelled different, it made you feel alive and adventurous. Bus fumes, barber poles, strings of multi-colored flags above the new cars for sale at Anderson Ford. The round, red vinyl seats at the drugstore that spun around on their shiny chrome pedestals. Made you feel like you were in the movies. A real soda fountain with malts, sundaes, and draft Coca-cola. Grab a magazine or comic book from the rack and sit and sip on a cherry Coke. Ahhhhhh.
I actually worked at the drug store – it was my first job. I think I made 38 cents an hour and pulled in the big money – which I promptly spent at same drugstore. I drove a ’61 Corvair, aqua blue – a color which is now in vogue, thanks to HGTV. Come to think of it, my exterior doors are that color . . .
Anyway, back to denial and the child in me that wants to see the grandchildren get cake and ice cream for breakfast, lunch or dinner. I’m guessing that the memory has to do with the celebratory side of cake and ice cream. It was only consumed on special occasions like birthdays and well, birthdays. I was the youngest of 5 kids and our family birthdays (including adults) were January 16th, February 4th, March 28, April 9th, May 1st, June 28th, July 18th. There wasn’t enough icing in the world that could hold me until January rolled around again – and my mom made a chocolate icing that would pour onto the cake surface and set up like fudge when it cooled. It was dyn-o-mite! Butter, cocoa and cream mixed just right, and to lick the pan was heaven!
Perhaps I want the kids to think that every day at Grandma and Grandpa’s is a celebration? I want them to write stories in their blogs about cake and laughter and forget about me taking away the permanent markers, and the crayon melting machine (that serves no purpose as far as I can tell but to run up the electric bill and leave blobs of melted wax everywhere).
It’s been many years since I’ve had to hide my snacks from kids. I’m not very practiced and I haven’t been successful. They have sharp eyes and instincts and my efforts have been thwarted. But, like any double edged sword, I’ve lost about 7 pounds since they moved in. Partially from them eating my snacks, and because, well, I can’t remember where I’ve hid them. Lord, I hope I didn’t put any chocolate in the closet in this heat. . .