Keeping cake close to my heart.

So I keep doing this thing where I eat an ungodly amount of cake, feel near-comatose as my pulse plods, veins running thick with icing, and promise myself I'm not going to ever do that again as I sink into sleep with a bready-brick in my stomach. Every next day, enchanted by twenty-five Córdoba cuts of fantastic layer cake that would leave Fat Bastard begging for a doggie bag, slices that standing side-by-side would dwarf Shaq's shoes, my willpower crumbles and I end up tempting shoulder dislocation hauling another hunk the twelve blocks home. And the repostería also makes giant donuts -- at least the size of the rims on my old Geo Prism -- that it smothers in a thick yellow cream dotted with raisins. These donuts somehow weigh even more than the cake, as if the secret ingredient is some undiscovered ultra-dense baking element from planet pastry.

What else? Well, all this flirting with diabetes usually takes place after my nightly bout of Thanksgiving-style gluttony. A recently discovered frintanga that completely hides its dinnerware beneath mounds of gallo pinto, cabbage salad, and whatever so-cheap-as-to-be-practically-free side item(s) I've elected to eat that night; side items that are essentially a fingernail's worth of something, say a mixture of chicken and rice, deep fried until it's fist sized. Or bigger.

That C$5 enchiladas are delicious deep-fried pockets filled with said rice and chicken. They look exactly like, though are probably less healthy than the "fruit" pies/turnovers you can buy at any Seven/Eleven, the empanada-looking crapsnacks that are stacked on shelves in either the traditional waxypaper bag or the more modern cardboard box. Regardless of the style of packaging, you'll recognize these treats for the huge grease stains soaking through the outside.

Dad, you can postpone that dentist appointment. I think we shoud go ahead and preemptively book be in for the gamut of major heart surgeries.