Dr. Fiancé and I tasted wedding cakes this evening: a coconut one that evoked the smell of suntan lotion, an almond one peppered with little brown flecks sullying the cake’s virginal whiteness, and the one with the rich delicious flavor accented with thin layers of lemon curd. Guess which was my favorite.
Dr. Fiancé preferred the coconut and almond options. He said the rich delicious cake was neither rich or delicious, even without the lemon curd. This from a man whose favorite birthday cake flavor is oh-so-culinarily-daring “yellow.”
As soon as we realized our taste buds were following different trails of crumbs down divergent paths, we just sort of stopped talking, returning our attention to Step-Brothers, a movie I'd specifically selected for its antidote-to-girly-things-like-tasting-wedding-cakes properties.
I could probably get excited about the almond cake. Maybe I’ll be able to come to regard the little brown flecks not as blemishes but as confetti—the confetti of compromise.
I guess I really wanted Dr. Fiancé to see the error of his ways and take a bite of the rich, delicious cake and be all, “Oh this is lemon curd? I love this stuff. I must have been confusing it with lemon Jell-O. Silly me. Yes, by all means, let’s serve this cake at our wedding. It’s perfect—just like you.” [Smackery sounds of kissing.]
Once again, felled by the power of my high expectations.