I'm Like a Bag of Sugar

"You're like a bag of sugar," my husband said with a sultry gaze that DID NOT fit his statement.

    "A bag . . . of sugar?" I asked, walking across the kitchen.  Our four kids had fallen asleep and it was the perfect opportunity to tease Cade.  "Are you calling me a bag?" I looked toward the pantry.
    He nodded, his gaze faltering a bit. "But in a good way."
    "Really. How big of a bag?  A huge, burdensome bag that no one wants to haul inside?  The kind of sugar no one has room for in their pantry--let alone their lives?"
    "Ummm. . . ." He stepped back. "The perfect size."
    "Perfect as in flawless, or pity-me perfect?" I asked and he blinked.  "And sugar?  Why did you pick sugar?  Because I can't get a tan? And I'm blindingly white?"
    He blinked again.  "You don't have tan lines--that's good, right?"
    "Why are you suddenly asking the questions.  I'm the one who should be insulted here.  You just called me a bag . . ."
    "Of sugar.  A bag OF SUGAR.  I was trying to say you were sweet."
    "Past tense?  I was sweet?"
    He gulped, and his confounded look broke through my act.  I nearly fell on the floor, laughing so hard I could have peed my pants.
    "You were joking?" he asked, edging to the other side of the kitchen table.
    I finally stood, still laughing. "Yeah.  Thanks, Babe, for saying I'm like a bag of sugar." After wiping the tears from my mirthful eyes, I sauntered over to him.  "Best compliment ever."
    He shook his head, still unsure.  "Fine. I gave you a compliment. Now you can give me one.  What food do I remind you of?" he asked.
    "Well--" I cleared my throat.  What was HE playing at? "You remind me of . . . of . . . " I looked around the kitchen, stalling for time. There were some doggy treats on the counter--that wouldn't work.  Or the miniature wieners--that'd be the wrong choice as well.  What about butter--too soft.  Eggs?--too feminine.  Pudding--too mushy.  Sardines--wait, who bought sardines?!  Then I thought of how he makes life shine and how everything is better with him around.  He's the icing in a triple-layer cake--the cream-cheese filling that holds everything together! Or the sweetest part of my morning mocha. "You're like whipping cream!" The words just came out.
    "Why?" he paused, his mind obviously whirring.  "Because you think I'm whipped!  That you can walk all over me? Tease me, constantly?"  
    "What? No!  How could you twist that?  Whipping cream, ya know.  I meant you're fun and special and . . ."
    "Fattening?"  He smirked then, such a freakin' Casanova.
    I cleared my throat.  "You win.  That's it, we should never compare each other to food, ever again."
    "Agreed," Cade said, still smiling as we walked hand-in-hand out of the damn kitchen.    
    And to think, I used to love sugar and whipping cream; now I hate them. 

    If you had to compare yourself to a food, what would you pick?

    I want to be like potatoes, because they're freakin' delightful.