The Cheesy Grin

Had a bad day. A real bad day. This bad day lasted about two and a half weeks. And I don't mean that Catskillsily. I needed a reliable, non-wobbly cheesecake. Yes. A whole one. (See aforementioned bad day reference.) Pretty sure I was married when last I made a cheesecake, so it's been a coon's age. Maybe two.

I beat the shit outta the graham crackers (with angry, bad-day-related glee) and pressed the buttery crust into the springform pan. Whipped my ingredients without benefit of a mixer (again, a much needed expenditure of aggression). Did the baking thing. Did the leave it sitting in the warm oven with the door open thing. Went back an hour later, and the damn thing was smiling at me. Look at the photo above and tell me that ain't a smile. Not a pie-eating grin, exactly, and not quite a Mona Lisa, but still. A smile. Kind of a snaggletooth, Squidbillies smile.

Now, here's where it gets weird.

I think my cheesecake was trying to communicate with me. I stood there and stared at it for a long time. I honestly felt some sort of message coming off the thing. I know home-baked cheesecakes in the hands of inept non-domestics often crack. But this was a wise crack. My cheesecake possessed a compassionate benevolence, a seasoned intelligence, a soul.

I ate it anyway. 'Cause I mean, like, it's a cheesecake yo.

Gotta say, it made me feel better. I felt karmically nourished by it. Next day I got a phone call with some amazinghappyflatteringlucrative news. The phone continued to ring all afternoon, with other amazinghappyflatteringlucrative news related details, but when the dust settled, I thought of the cheesecake. Okay, I thought of eating it some more. But when I peeled back the foil and saw the jagged half-smile (other half had been consumed), I wondered if the cheesecake had been trying to tell me everything was gonna be alright. Had the message of the cheesecake been that the tide was about to turn for me? Was this home-baked confection conveying a sage solace? A crooked and creamy therethere?

Or is there maybe such a thing as lactose-induced psychosis?

Either way, it was sure tasty.