So yes, I have a subscription to The Betty Crocker Cookbook Collection.

Now normally that’s the kind of information that I’d ask folks to keep under their hats or other apparel suitable for storing such secrets, but at this point it certainly seems like the buttermilk frosting is out of the bag.  And it’s not even that I’m necessarily embarrassed by this culinary outing, as if it would be possible to damage my own manhood any further than Britney Spears and reality television already have, but more so for this particular deep, dark secret, it’s one that I kind of preferred to keep tucked away simply because much like when a guy’s got a fast car or a pretty girlfriend, as soon as people start getting wind of any cooking prowess you might be holding back from them, suddenly you become their own personal Emeril Legasse and not for nothing, but I didn’t get this overweight cooking for other people…

I mean, don’t get me wrong – you certainly won’t catch yours truly on Top Chef or the latest Food Network creation anytime this century … I’m not really one to improvise behind the apron, having conjured up offending odors from the fifth dimension on more than one occasion already!  But unlike most men, if there’s one thing that I am good at, it’s following directions and that’s where my good, old friend Mrs. Crocker comes in – from 5-Minute Meals to Decadent Desserts, she does all of the heavy-thinking, I follow along word-for-word with dreams of angel food cake drizzled with fresh strawberries dancing through my head, and in the end, my kitchen actually emits smells that one would look forward to experiencing on a cool, summer’s night after a long day of running through sprinklers and so on and so forth.  We make a good team!

Or at least I thought we did, but you know what they say – “Friends don’t sell friends’ names and addresses on mailing lists to every Tom, Dick, and Harry that try to throw together a dozen recipes and call it a cookbook!” It used to be that I’d get the stray advertisement every couple of months promoting some random attempt at cooking paraphernalia, but lately I can’t walk to the mailbox on any given day without finding myself lambasted by half a dozen or more invitations to “Fill my home with the flavors of love!” or “Get ready to give the gift of deliciousness this holiday season!” And the thing is, sure, I get plenty of junk mail just like everybody else, but let’s face it – the generic junk mail that everybody gets consists of coupons for local pizza and takeout joints plastered between a handful of ads for low cost dental work and the area’s “best” personal injury attorneys.  They don’t really need to ask anybody who likes pizza or suing people into oblivion, but when it comes to pushing the likes of Granny’s Greatest Goodies or The Very Best Muffins of All-Time, vol. 7, it pays to have a hunch on exactly which households might be predisposed towards such publications.

…which is why it’s currently my assumption that none other than Betty Crocker herself is the dame responsible for spreading my recipe-oriented magazine desires around like a Hollywood tabloid reporter.  And believe me, the head cookbook lady and I go way back, so I hate to call her out like that, but really, it’s the only solution that actually makes sense because just for the record, I’m definitely a one-cookbook kind of guy, so if it wasn’t Betty that gave up my name and address, the only other option is that somebody broke into my house in the middle of the night and rooted through our magazine rack in search of advertising leads.  Seeing as we’re not getting any of those other kinds of magazine offers in the mail – like for Good Housekeeping and Scientific American, of course … I don’t know what you were thinking – there’s really only a single point of failure in this here recipe and in this particular case, the proof certainly is in the old-fashioned, stove-cooked pudding, my friends.

So as you would imagine, now I’m stuck in one doozy of a Vlassic pickle.  Do I just keep on cooking apathetically like nothing ever happened, cranking out the tastiest BBQ meatballs and seven-layer bean dips the neighborhood block party has ever tasted, as my conscious nags at me deep down inside in knowing that my good friend sold me out to make a quick buck from someone attempting to pawn off inferior culinary products to the unsuspecting?  Or do I slam the kitchen door shut, ending a five-year recurring subscription, err, relationship with someone who brought me many great meals, despite them all leading up to this one great hardship?  It’s the decision that a man should never have to make concerning his monthly, full-color cookbook of choice, but alas, here I am with that very question lingering on the tip of my spatula…

Call me a lovesick fool, or even just a guy who particularly loves Betty Crocker’s Annual Christmas Cookie Spectacular, but I suppose at least for the time being I’ll take the privacy hit in favor of continuing to embrace Betty’s delicious, home-cooked delights that I’ve grown ever so accustomed to over our years together.  Of course, some will say that those who welcome deceit into their cookbook subscription agreement are doomed to live a life of despair and discontent, but I suppose that ultimately if enduring a little extra mailbox clutter is the sacrifice I have to make to keep the quick quesadilla and ultra-moist brownie recipes flowing, then it’s one that I’m prepared to make right up until the end…

…or at least until a better cookbook comes along.  For I may bake on, but I’ll never forget.