Ladyfinger, okay ... Fingercake, I don't think so!

[Guest guest]

Thanksgiving Day we were spending at my brother's house, and my brother had

asked me to bring the pumpkin pie, so I went to the Splenda website and found a

couple of PP recipes. They looked simple enough, especially when you

consider I intended to use a ready-made pie shell. So far so good. While

I'm

at the website, I notice there is a recipe for some kind of white layer cake

(called a Spring cake or something like that), and being the cake-fiend that I

am, I decided to make this cake. Oh visions of feasting almost guiltlessly on

a sugar free frosted layer cake, one which had NONE of the dreaded sugar

alcohols, had me nearly swooning in anticipation. " Okay " I said

over-confidently

to myself, " it's a cake, how the frig hard could it be to make " (confession:

I don't use the word " frig " when I talk to myself, please substitute

whatever alternate " f " word you think might apply in this instance.)

Now to demonstrate just how seriously I was about my venture into baking, I

went out and got a couple of forms of those new type of rubbery (silicone??)

looking cake forms, which were rather expensive. BUT I wanted ONLY the best

for my cake! Then I planned tactically how I was going to accomplish

churning out both pies & cake, because I KNEW that by having cake within a

readily-available 10 mile radius to my greedy cake-starved grasp presented

grave

dangers to my waistline & sanity, and therefore determined that I must make the

cake on Thursday morning when the realities of time presented a situation with

the least threat that I would succumb to the cake's evil way & potent magic and

scarf it down in a stupor. Now pumpkin pie I can resist handily, so I made

two pies on Wednesday and sneered at them as I placed them in the frig.

" AHA, " I said to the pies, " You present NO threat to my magnificence! FIE FIE

FOOLS! " (Yes I sometimes talk to food.) And overnight the pies rested in

my frig totally unmolested. Thrusday morning bright and early and salivating

slightly, I started on the cake, with a heart bursting with hope.

Sifted together the dry ingredients as per instructions, then began to

incorporate the softened butter which I had chunked up, also per instructions.

So

there I was with my beater churning, flour stuff being sprayed in a mist

around me, as I tried to feed manually the butter chunks into the beater heads,

cause I guess I hadn't softened the stuff quite sufficiently. So I'm gently

pushing the butter chunks into the heads, moving around the beater, trying

desperate to get everything " incorporated " , when suddenly some of the most

excruciating pain I had ever experienced wrenched a scream from my wetly-licked

lips.

I had, somehow, managed to jam 2 of the fingers on my left hand IN the

beater heads. Shut off the beater as fast as I could and plunged my throbbing

hand under cold water and cursed the cakegods for their cruelty. Well

after icing my hand for about 20 minutes I managed to complete the

" incorporation "

but when it came to pouring the batter into the cake forms, I suspected I

hadn't quite created a successful cake batter judging by it's consistency.

Still, not having learned better despite all evidence to the contrary, I

continued

to hope.

Shortening this story up so it doesn't literally take on the form of a greek

tragedy, when it came time later to unmold the layers, which incidentally

STUCK to my brand new rubbery cakeform thingies which guaranteed things wouldn't

stick to it!!!, the cake was undeniably " heavy " and when it cracked through my

efforts to extricate it from the rubber-traps, I could see it had " holes "

throughout it's cake-guts.

Disgustedly, with my injured hand still throbbing somewhat, I threw both

layers into the garbage.

Now what the hell does this saga have to do with Obesity Support etc.?

Listen up Fay this part is meant specifically for you: sometime later on

yesterday, when I came home (obviously) from my brother, and when my husband had

retired, I took myself downstairs to my kitchen and scooped out some of this

cake from the garbage and proceeded to gorge on it. It had a particularly

floury and heavy consistency, so I knew somewhere in the rational part of my

mind

it was going to wad up in my pouch and take on the weight of lead. Didn't

stop me, kept scooping out of the garbage and gorging it down. Had to

facilitate this with milk of course, thereby making a nice leaden paste in my

pouch.

Had to throw up painfully once, which cleared the decks for gorge number 2,

after which I was forced to vomit yet again. By this time I was feeling

miserable enough to stop. My physical misery didn't last long, but my

emotional misery over this ugly incident continues to nag at me.

Thinking about this all day, beating myself up over it, I have come to

resolve that tomorrow I will try to do better. Honestly it doesn't hurt

either

that my husband took the garbage out this morning so whatever cake was still in

there is no longer singing my name.

The moral of the story is when you get your fingers painfully jammed whilst

in the process of trying to make a cake, someone somewhere is trying to send

you a message!

By the way the pies were delicious!

Lucille