Hanging Tough Around the Finger Sandwiches

I attended a bridal shower yesterday and had a lovely time.

Held under a tent, I sat at a lace-draped table and partook in the traditonal manifestations of commitment and love that result in the coming together of friends and family on a beautiful afternoon as well as the forcing of a perfectly nice young woman to wear a paper plate on her head.

The dreaded ribbon hat

But enough about that, people.

Love, shmove, I say--this is about finger sandwiches! And Susan Says loves her some finger sandwiches.

Tuna and cucumber, egg salad and chicken to name but a few...piled in tempting pyramids, there were thousands of them...maybe millions. In fact, I am quite sure there may have been a billion. Yes, a billion finger sandwiches.

If, in my building delirium, I had overturned the tables, tipping over the tiered trays and platters, I could have rolled around in them and still had plenty to enjoy with iced tea and lemonade once the fever passed.

But guess what? Susan Says is trying to lose weight.

Punishment enough under normal circumstances, cutting back on a day when there are a billion finger sandwiches within stampeding distance and the only thing between them and my tummy is a bunch of frail old ladies, is a feat of superhuman and character building self control.

Factor in trays of lady fingers with clotted cream and individual strawberry short cakes served in teeny little teacups and the fact that I did not begin speaking in tongues was pretty amazing.

And I love you, too, petit fours.

Thank the good lord there weren't petit fours* or all would have been lost.

I cannot resist a petit four under any circumstances so when attempting to stick to my goddam diet fully embrace this lifestyle change of eating in a more healthful manner, I try to avoid environments where they may be present...bridal showers are risky.

There could be a snarling, snapping pit bull blocking my path and I would toss him aside with one swipe to get at a tray of petit fours. The Berlin Wall could not have kept me from petit fours. 

Back off, Cujo. You're going to lose.

Finger sandwiches are a close second.

When the hostess announced that it was time to attack the finger sandwiches eat, I kept seated for a few moments to gather my strength.

Watching the trays carefully, I was prepared to strike like a crazed mongoose if I felt the towering and artfully arranged piles of cunning little sandwiches, crustless and cut in triangles, were being significantly diminished by the locusts disguised in heels and colorful summer dresses.

After visualizing terrifying combinations of cellulite, thunder thighs and back fat for several minutes, I rose and slowly approached the table,

Dr. Oz crusading against cellulite.

Breathing exercises helped as I concentrated on keeping my balance in the tent-shaded grass.

I grew closer and closer, nonchalantly taking a plate from the stack. Instead of following my impulse to bend at the waist and eat straight from the platters using no hands, I placed no more than four on my plate and, as Buzzy does when he is given a piece of ham, took my food into a corner and growled while I ate.

And I did not go back for seconds. Victory was mine.

I tried not to look at the food table for the duration of the event.

So, here I am...guilt free and feeling feisty. Today, finger sandwiches. Tomorrow the world.

* I used to think that petit fours meant "small fours" but it really means small ovens.