Comment: Home Run

Just went to my first ever professional American baseball game (in America). I hadn't seen pro players since I was a wee lass in Montreal, when the Expos meant something. (Even though their mascot, Youppi, was a scary, muppet-like orange monster. We used to run around the ball park hoping to see him. I touched his fur once. I guess I'm still a little traumatized.)

It was my kids' first game, too, and we got the royal treatment. We scored some box seats for the game and boy, did we live the dream.

Were there hot dogs? You bet. Beer? Of course. Free loot, like baseball hats and cards, and professional photos? Yes, yes, and yes.

But here's what made my night: the dessert cart.

I haven't seen decadence like this since my stepsister made me a cake for my 18th birthday that my friends in my dorm and I dubbed "The Orgasm Cake." (Long may it live in history.) The skinny young woman in charge of the dessert cart must not like cake, because people, there was cake up the ying yang. I was pretty much salivating and making a total ass out of myself as she described, in luscious detail, the banana chocolate custard cake, the triple layer carrot cake, and the smore cake that had about three thousand layers of rich deliciousness, plus marshmallows on top and a creamy ganache vein to clog the arteries and make the soul sing.

My daughter got more ice cream than she's ever been allowed to have in her life. My husband and son got decadent chocolate cake and brownies, respectively. I got a piece of smores cake the size of my four year-old's head. AND I got a Grand Marnier shot in a chocolate cup. Yes, a chocolate cup. Sexy. If this is how rich people live, why aren't they all really fat?

It was pure decadence. It was madness. I couldn't finish it. I ate until I nearly burst. It was a beautiful experience.

Oh, and the game was good, too.