I don't like carrot cake. This has been a constant, if generally unspoken, tenet of my life dating back a quarter century to an unfortunate moment of mistaken identity (carrot cake is such a profound disappointment when you are an eight-year-old girl expecting a delicious bite of chocolate cake).
Andy came over to my place on New Year's Eve with part of a carrot cake in tow, fresh from his sister's oven. I, ever so slightly tipsy, blurted out in a moment of rudeness unusual even for me, "How nice of you, Andy, but I don't really like carrot cake!"
He looked crestfallen. I quickly apologized. And the next morning, in the midst of gathering up beer bottles and wine glasses, washing dishes, righting the wreckage of the previous evening, I decided I'd better give his carrot cake a go.
And lo, it may be time to admit that I perhaps like carrot cake, and that this tenet, once so accepted, is no longer valid.
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