“What do you mean you don’t
like carrot cake?”
I don’t like it.
“Well, have you tried it?”
Yes, I don’t like it.
“But it’s so good! C’mon,
have a bite of mine. You’ll like it!”
No, I won’t. If it’s so great, enjoy the fact that you
don’t have to share it with me.
“Why don’t you like it?”
No one ever asks me why I don’t
like pigs feet. Or grasshoppers. I don’t ask people why they don’t like the
taste of pigeon. That’s because the answer will be either, “I can’t bring
myself to try it, it sound so disgusting,” or “I’ve tried it, and it just didn’t
taste good to me.” People are allowed to have their own opinion when it comes
politics, religion and what they think tastes yummy/gross. But that reasoning
just isn’t enough for fans of carrot cake.
So every time. I have to
justify my antagonist
relationship with carrot cake. Which involves a little bit of a lie.
Carrot cake, is
not cake. It’s technically a quick bread. (This is true. I haven’t gotten to
the lie yet.) Banana nut bread is a
quick bread too. It doesn’t call itself “banana nut cake” though. Because banana
nut bread isn’t a fucking liar. Until carrot cake stops calling itself a cake,
and calls itself carrot bread I’m not eating it! (That part’s the lie.)
And truth be
told, I have to admire the carrot cake. For dreaming bigger than its peers. Carrot
bread didn’t want a life like his brothers. Being made by middle aged women
with too many cats and too much time on their hands. It didn’t want to only be
made when knitters ran out of yarn, and the craft stores were closed. It wanted
to be made for special occasions. It wanted to have candles stuck in it, and
spit blown on it after a wish is made. It dreamt that people of all ages would
look forward to eating a slice, rather than only being eaten because there wasn’t
time to make bacon.
Good for you,
carrot cake. I still want nothing to do with you. But keep dreaming, kid. Keep dreaming.
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