The Night of the Strawberry Cheesecake Massacre

The other day my wife and I ran a few errands, did a little shopping and, what with still being in the holiday mood, ended up at a delightful place called “The Cheesecake Factory” for a late lunch.

Before we left the restaurant, my daughter, who was unable to join us as she was out with friends doing a little post-holiday shopping on her own, called and asked that I pick up a slice of their famous Strawberry Cheesecake for her.

Several hours later, my daughter still not home, the cheesecake was downstairs, alone defenseless and cold in the refrigerator.

Now the atomic half life of a cheesecake in our refrigerator (the time interval in which the mass of a cheesecake is decreased through indiscreet nibbling) is inversely proportional to the number of times the refrigerator door is opened.

In short, the cheesecake was toast.

My daughter was expected home at any minute and we had to make a quick decision.

Rush out and purchase another slice of strawberry cheesecake before her return … or come up with a credible excuse.

We opted for “Plan B”

When my daughter turned on the kitchen light, the following notice, attached to the outside of the fridge, was the first thing to catch her eye: