Bakery treats are my weakness. We all know this. I can easily inhale my own body weight in donuts and pastries, even as my body weight grows enormously from all the donuts and pastries I’m inhaling.
Best that I just stay the hell away from them.
I’ve been pretty good at doing so this year, despite dire temptation, particularly on my morning walks through Paddington and West End, which are both full of cafes and muffins I like.
My one weird trick?
Imagination muffins.
There’s one cafe on my Paddington walk which has these incredible-looking chocolate and blueberry muffins. I often stop in there to grab a coffee to wash down my terrible protein bar, and of course, staring up at me from the counter every goddamned time is a plate full of these freshly baked tempty bitchez.
Until this morning I’d avoided falling on them like a giant muffin whale unhinging his jaw to harvest an ocean of sugary carbs. I did this by just imagining what they’d taste like. I’ve eaten so many blueberry and chocolate muffins that I have a very strong sense memory of the experience. And ten seconds after I swallowed the last bite, the memory is all I have left. So why not just go with that.
It worked.
But this morning I was there with a bunch of friends and I thought, “Huzzah! I can get one of those muffins and share it around. So I’ll finally know what it tastes like and in future, my imagination muffins will be even betterer!”
Friends, it was okay, you know, as a muffin.
But not nearly as good as my imagination muffins. Their imagination blueberries were juicier. The chocolate richer. The crispy little crust around the edge of the make-believe muffin top all that much crispier and crunchier, providing a more satisfying textural contrast with the buttery muffin filling within.
Le sigh.
I fear I have ruined my sense memory of imagination muffins.
Look JB, it’s not over. You just chose the bad one of the bunch. The one next to it would have met or exceeded your expectations, and the one at the cafe around the corner…well…might be just amazing.
Brilliant idea, I had never considered it but that sounds genuinely clever. The occasional taste to highlight the fact that it just doesn't taste as good as your imagined muffin. A Plato's cave but in reverse. Looking forward to trying it out.
That's sad that having indulged in the real muffin it wasn't as good as your imagined muffin, but in future when you're tempted you can recall this disappointment and use it like a shield against the siren song of temptation.
Have you thought about giving the guy behind the counter an amount of money/bride, each week to refuse to serve you any type of pastry, including all varieties of muffins? It's a win, win situation. The guy behind the counter gets paid for giving you nothing, and you get to live to a ripe old age and see your granddaughter start dating a tattooed, mullet-headed, unemployed bikie who smells of pot.
One day I must let you sample my fresh baked raspberry, white chocolate, & coconut muffins. Buttermilk makes them fluffy and a zing of lemon zest binds the magic. Perhaps it's a good thing I left town.
Look JB, it’s not over. You just chose the bad one of the bunch. The one next to it would have met or exceeded your expectations, and the one at the cafe around the corner…well…might be just amazing.
Brilliant idea, I had never considered it but that sounds genuinely clever. The occasional taste to highlight the fact that it just doesn't taste as good as your imagined muffin. A Plato's cave but in reverse. Looking forward to trying it out.
That's sad that having indulged in the real muffin it wasn't as good as your imagined muffin, but in future when you're tempted you can recall this disappointment and use it like a shield against the siren song of temptation.
This is why I don't leave the house: no temptations.
Have you thought about giving the guy behind the counter an amount of money/bride, each week to refuse to serve you any type of pastry, including all varieties of muffins? It's a win, win situation. The guy behind the counter gets paid for giving you nothing, and you get to live to a ripe old age and see your granddaughter start dating a tattooed, mullet-headed, unemployed bikie who smells of pot.
Hot chips, an object of desire one mostly denies oneself, are rarely not a disappointment when you actually have some. Still the dream survives.
The only time I find realisation consistently matches anticipation is in the consumption of beer. But that just might be me.
One day I must let you sample my fresh baked raspberry, white chocolate, & coconut muffins. Buttermilk makes them fluffy and a zing of lemon zest binds the magic. Perhaps it's a good thing I left town.