“Who ate it all? My one treat at the end of the day. You know it’s mine. Why did you eat it?” The vortex of anguish was accompanied by the freezer door opening and closing, opening and closing as I looked inside again and again in disbelief. Anguish escalated to anger. I’ve got a sugar-coated monkey on my back.
The kids know the signs – slightly jerky movements, the voice edging an octave higher, words tumbling out too fast. She’s gonna blow! They retreat from the kitchen, seeking safety behind the dining room table. And they watch.
It’s a habit, this dish of ice cream after dinner. A very small bowl of vanilla flecked creaminess to satisfy my need for something sweet. I use a tiny spoon to prolong the pleasure. I tease each minuscule morsel gently from the spoon with my eager tongue. It’s the tip, you know, that has the most intense sensation. The cluster of buds that bring joy, that satisfy the jarred nerves, that brings release from the grip of desire. I pause between loads to let the sugar delivered in this luxurious format reach my pleasure centre – the sweet spot.
“Yes, yes, yes. So good. Another little spoonful. Mmm. Better. Again, please. Not too fast now. Easy, easy. Don’t rush. Nice . And. Slow. Ahhh. Yes. That’s it. Right there. Stop! Ohhh, yeeesss.”
Truly, this is proof that size doesn’t matter. It’s all about technique. A tablespoon would be overwhelming and possibly painful. You know – brain-freeze. Small, delicately dispensed is far more effective in the end.
But back to the drama. An ugly scene was saved by the revelation of a secret. It was shocking at first but being an addict, I quickly turned it to my advantage. You see, my husband, also an addict but one who doesn’t acknowledge his affliction, had a stash. A shoe box of mixed chocolate delights stowed beneath his tower of Lycra t-shirts and spandex bike pants. A veritable no-woman’s land of fitness apparel. And since he lives with four women his cache was safe. That is it WAS safe until one of the teens found evidence. A discarded Smarties box in the bathroom garbage bin.
“Dad! You have candy and you didn’t share!” There’s no scold like a teen scold. A wannabe, trained by the master – her mother.
At the shriek of the word “candy”, feet pounded up the stairs – mine and the other kids – rushing to confront the cunning concealer.
He whinnied out nervous laughter and snorted his defence. “I was helping mom, keeping the sugar away from her”.
“But what about us, Dad?”
“You guys can’t keep a secret. Next thing you know, mom would be mad at ME for keeping sweets in the house, accusing me of tempting her.”
We demanded our share. (I withheld my wagging tongue.) He capitulated and we were all spared the horrible spiraling out of control of sugar withdrawal.
The tub of ice cream is now securely hidden behind the frozen peas, the ones that have been in the freezer since 2007. My supply is safe.