I’m going to have to work on some hymns

People, I have found proof that God exists.  Well, let me be clear.  I’m referring to the God the Quills have prayed to for years.  We’ve even considered forming an official church and becoming tax exempt for the IRS.  We are very dedicated and loyal to this God: God of bleached white flour and refined sugar.  The G0d of butter creme frosting.  The God of chocolate ganache.  The God of delicate lemon icing and vanilla beans.

My family and I made a spur of the moment decision to eat dinner at The Cheesecake Factory.  Regardless of the mixed reviews I’ve heard, we had a lovely experience.  And I’m sure you can guess that we topped off our meal with cheesecake. 

What kind of idiots would we be if we didn’t eat the food the place was named after?  Not these idiots, I assure you.

I knew instantly what I would order the minute I saw the dessert menu.  Sassy was willing to share it with me – mostly because I became instantly incommunicative the minute I saw it on the menu.  I would not be swayed.

Stephanie’s Red Velvet Cake Cheesecake.

I’ll give you a moment for silent introspection.  Pray amongst yourselves.  Smoke ’em if you’ve got ’em.  BYOC (bring your own cake).  We pretty much allow anything in our church.  We’re very liberal that way.

It was everything I hoped it would be.  As you can see from the picture, it was red velvet cake, cream cheese icing, cheesecake, red velvet, icing, cheesecake, icing and a glorious mound of whipped cream.

The cake was moist, the frosting tangy, the cheesecake like manna from heaven.

I tell you, I almost orgasmed at the table.

Other people had other desserts, but honestly, I have no idea what they had.  I was in rapture.

After My Honey informed me that we would no longer be allowed in the restaurant if I didn’t stop making those embarrassing noises and licking the plate, we ran into the mall for some quick shopping.

I walked along the with the masses and regretted the folly of ordering dinner and not just getting dessert.  The salmon I had was excellent, but now I was over-full.  It wasn’t from eating the dessert.  I knew that would be happening.  The problem, as I see it, was eating the main course.  THAT is what made me uncomfortable.  Thank goodness I didn’t have a salad with dinner – I’d probably have ruptured something.

If our church ever makes up commandments or bylaws or some other organized nonsense, that will be right up there:  Thou shalt not order a main course when eating at The Cheesecake Factory.

My five year old, Bandit, was moaning right along with me.  He finally turned to his dad and asked to be lifted up onto his shoulders.

“Too tired to walk, little dude?” he daddy asked as he hoisted him up.

“Yeah,” he groaned.  “I think I have diabetes.”

“What?”  His daddy was having a hard time following the meandering conversation.  You have to be quick with five-year-olds – they go off on weird tangents and, if you don’t pay attention, you’ll get lost.  “Why, dude?”

“I had those two glasses of chocolate milk and then that cheesecake.  I’m just sure I have diabetes.”

I don’t know what that preschool is teaching him, but I’d love to be a fly on the wall sometimes.