Patron Saint of the Iron Stomach

Williams Sonoma. A monument to aspirational living. Martha Stewart incarnated as a store. A place where you walk out instantly a shinier, better version of you because you bought that $89 pear cornucopia.

Money well spent, no?

If that doesn't appeal, well there's always the monogrammed steak brander, you know, for when you want to brand your beef after it's been taken off the pasture.

Because even Martha has her cowgirl moments

I don't belong in Williams-Sonoma. And I know it. But what I also know is when you're shopping for your parents' anniversary gift in a mall that considers itself too upscale to have a food court - and you're just plain hungry - it's time to hit up the Williams-Sonoma for the food samples. Word to the wise: this is a boon especially during Christmas time.

Admit it, you've done it too. You have no intention of buying anything in the store, not their $20 jar of salsa or $400 set of bamboo spoons carved by missionary nuns in the rice fields of Vietnam. You just want the samples.

Sure enough, upon entering the store, I smell something baking. Cinnamon-y goodness in the air. We have a winner. So I stroll around the store, nodding politely at the seemingly endless blonde, apron-attired Martha clones that work in the store, while seeking out the goods. No joke, I'm starving at this point and I'm fading fast.

Finally, my eyes land on a cake stand populated with little mini-muffin somethings. The card next to it reads their pumpkin streusel thing-amabobs. Pumpkin and streusel muffin thing-amabobs are not really my gig, but I'll take whatever I can get. So I covertly take half a piece and bite into it while scurrying towards the back of the store, pretending to shop until it's safe to make a move for the exit.

But I have to admit, they're pretty damn good. Good enough for me to want to grab a box of the exorbitantly priced mix they're selling along with it. As I'm crunching my way through my little snack, I look around to see if anyone will notice that I'm going to be a piggy and go back for more. Nope, so I swoop back into the cake stand. This time, I grab the mx and a whole streusel thingy, made up of two pieces with some kind of icing cementing them in the middle. Keyword: cementing.

But this is Moi we're talking about so the only thing I am is so excited because this bit of cake will definitely tide me over until I get home. As I go up to the register to pay for the mix, one of the Martha clones smiles at me.

"Would you like to try a sample of our pumpkin bread? Fresh out of the oven!"

Blinded by a row of white, pearly teeth, I say, "Sure!" Oink, oink.

She hands me a tiny, little paper cup with a 1-inch cube of pumpkin bread, considerably smaller than the fistful of cake I'm holding in my other paw. She and the lady behind the register smile at me. I'm a little confused now, but now that I'm under the safety of being a Paying Customer, I ask, "Is this the same stuff as on the other side of the store?"

She looks at me. "Where?"

I point over on the other side, but I see she's not getting it. Figuring she may think I'm a pig, but that she can't take it from me, I hold up the cake. "This."

Instead, the sample lady nearly tackles me taking the cake out of my hand, only after exchanging a quick look of horror with the cashier. "That's a display item! That must be at least two weeks old!"

So that's why it was a bit crunchy.

I try to save face. "Ohmigod! I'm so glad I didn't eat that! I just figured since there wasn't a cover on the stand, it was okay."

The cashier looks at me like I just grew two heads. "No way - you could get really sick from eating that!"

I pay for my mix, thank them and shuffle out of the store, hoping they don't notice that there's another piece missing from the display. Because I'm the asshole that would wind up eating the store display and not notice in my blind fervor that the cake was hard as a rock and very nearly chipped my tooth.

Funnily enough though, it's 24 hours later and I feel fine.