Last night in the bath, I was telling B all about my childhood obsession with stealing the "Little Debbie" lunch cakes that my mom would buy to pack in my dad's lunch. I told him how she would always buy one box of ten cakes every two weeks, which was always just exactly enough for two weeks of lunches. But then I always had to steal one, which left my dad lunch-cakeless, usually on pay day-- the same day I was generously handed my allowance, I might add-- almost literally biting the hand that feeds.

I told him all about my strategy. How I had to wait until the box had been opened and until a few cakes were already gone. How I would very stealthily pull the chair over in front of the stove so that I could reach the top cupboard where my mother kept them. How I was so careful not to let the tiniest rustle escape from the crinkly cake wrapper. It was a science. I reveled in my cunning-- perhaps even more than I reveled in my cakes.

This week, B has gotten a very exposed glimpse of the kind of junk-food obsessions that rule my life. How even his sweetest kisses can't take my mind off of a promised bowl of Blue Bell vanilla ice cream with fresh strawberries and honey. How in the Hong Kong supermarket, I'll walk up and down each aisle twice, determined to find my favorite Japanese Koala cookies. How I love to go check B's mail because it means possibly snagging a fresh cookie from the apartment-complex office. And how every morning is so entirely about frosted strawberry pop-tarts that he's taken to calling me the pop-tart princess.

Though I have to say, I prefer la princesse du tarte de pop.