My Husband's Diet

(Photos: google.com)

Dear Turkey,
Your mushroom puffs look great. I can't wait to enjoy them on the porch of your camp in Canada, which is one reason why I am making my husband and baby get new passports this week. Too bad you ruined them with chicken. The mushroom puffs, that is.
I ate some sesame fake-chicken at Wegmans yesterday and it was gross because it actually tasted like chicken. I love Wegmans food, but I have some rules that I usually follow when I eat there (I have rules for lots of restaurants -- Moosewood: if they have something Mexican get that, if not but they have something Asian then get that, if not, get something with filo dough, but don't get pasta, and don't, under any circumstances, get fish), like only get things that they make in front of you, or that you can see them making (like subs, sushi, pizza, or lattes).
Anyway. my blender is not broken, and luckily the banana-yogurt ice cream is on my husband's diet. Did I mention that he is on the postpartum diet? While I had already lost all of my baby weight over a month ago (thank you very much, breastfeeding), my husband is still working on his. So that means that I CAN'T BAKE ANYTHING until he loses seven pounds! This is killing me! So whenever someone invites me over, I bake something seriously unhealthy with lots of butter and leave it at his or her house.
On Saturday I made this cake from Fannie Farmer that my husband tasted at a faculty meeting. 1.5 sticks of butter in one loaf pan can really cancel out any health benefits provided by the zucchini. I knew it was going to be delicious because about ten minutes after putting it in my oven, I smelled that unmistakable smell of things running over. At first it smells like the best s'more you ever ate. And then it smells like burning hair. So then I put a cookie sheet under it and, when it came out, I got to eat all of those little bonus pieces that had baked onto the cookie sheet.
Morals of the story: chicken=bad, diets=bad, always put something under what you're baking unless you enjoy cleaning your oven.
I moss you,
Tofu