CURSE OF THE SWEET TOOTH

I admit it. I crave sweets. And it seems that, after dinner, especially, if I don't have something sweet, I show the symptoms (I assume) of addiction: nervousness, restlessness, a gnawing need that doesn't go away until filled.

Over the years I have found that even as little as 3 Hersheys Kisses will serve me. Or a few marshmallows. It's like our dog: she expects the treat after she goes and does her business. I expect a treat after dinner.

Well, last night I sunk to a new low. Here is my confession. Let it serve as a source of a feeling of superiority for you. My weakness is my shame.

There was nothing sweet in the house. I looked in all the prime places, then the secondary ones: nothing sweet in the kitchen drawers, not in Terri's office drawers (no pun), and she assured me there were no more hidden Girl Scout cookies or treats in her bag. Relentlessly I roamed the house. There's ALWAYS something. I found a few hard candies, but they don't work for me. Hard candies are the lowest form of sugar: time consuming, often fruity and never satisfying.

I prowled on.

Couldn't eat a bowl of sweet cereal - we were out of milk. Didn't want it dry - the milk releases the sweetness.

I reached BEHIND things in cabinets. This is not normal behavior for any man.

Nothing lost, nothing forgotten, no remnants. There were a few white tips from Halloween candy corn in the corner of the empty candy drawer, but not enough of them to satisfy. Besides, they were petrified. If they broke a tooth, I wouldn't know which was the tooth and which was the corn tip.

Again I checked the freezer. And there, facing me at eye level, was a plastic brick of uneaten Gelatto that was old enough to have a historical marker on it. A challenge! But it should be sweet. Shouldn't it? All I have to do is get around the crusty icy crud.

And so, with spoon in hand, I dug in. I mined the goop for unspoiled Sweet, yes? Maybe a little suspiciously textured, but maybe that's the way they intended it.

Later, I was instant-messaged by my intestinal department that perhaps my entry into Old Gellato was a faux pas. In fact, even today I expect an explosion at any moment. That's as graphic as I'm going to get.

The moral of the story is I need help. In so many ways. And Gellato doesn't age well.