Dear Anna,

I’m a sugar addict. Is there an AA equivalent for sugar addiction? SA is taken by the sex maniacs, what does it leave it for us, the sugar deviants? 

Sugar has been my go-to comfort food for years. From 6-inch chocolate cakes eaten in one go, to store-bought tiramisu trays giving me caffeine-induced panic attacks, I’ve been addicted to the consistency sugar delivers.

I thought Asia might help me curb this addiction and it succeeded for a while. Sure, in the name of cultural immersion, I dabbled in the odd sticky mango rice or cendol, but there was no urge to chase my old favourites. But Dumaguete changed all that. What was supposed to be a laidback base for my daily excursions unleashed an uncontrollable cake tasting tour. The moment I laid eyes on the Sans Rival cake display, I signed off on my downfall into a frantic binge marathon. I brushed off its call the first day, but after an exhausting day snorkelling on Apo Island, I decided a treat was warranted. A date and walnut dacquoise. Too sweet, too rich, too much. But I still devoured every little piece and scraped the plate clean. The next day, I went to another branch to try their tres leches interpretation. I was in the Philippines after all, a country with a Spanish colonial history. Tres leches was a must-try. That same evening, after a day’s idling in town watching cocks get ready for the weekend fight, I went looking for sugar. I handed my soul to a slice of mango cloud and surrendered to my fate. The next day, it was the Queen Elizabeth cake. As a Brit, I owed it to my country to sample it. 

Things didn’t get any better in Cebu either. I had to take refuge in the Ayala Centre for three days due to a storm heading towards the Visayas. So, I tasked myself with finding the best cake in the mall. My Airbnb host kept sending me messages about the impending power outage and how I should have at least 5 litres of drinking water. I wolfed down slice after slice, as I stormed the storm that never quite lived up to its name.     

People go to Coron to do boat tours. After blowing up my budget on a private tour to swim in Kayangan Lake with four others rather than a sea of Instagram zombies doing a who’s-got-the-tightest-ass competition, I found cheaper fulfilment which came in the form of a bakery that played Christian rock. They had the best cakes in town and Christian rock sounded like lounge jazz as I was biting into the fluffiest buttercream frosting my teeth had touched in days. The best bakery in Puerto Princesa was over an hour walk from where I stayed. Reddit and Google Maps reassured me; I would not be disappointed. So I marched up there, in peak sun, determined not to give the trike drivers the pleasure of ripping me off. Their eyes would light up as soon as they saw me. ‘Finally, an idiot we can fleece,’ they’d think. But this idiot had other priorities, and sugar triumphed over a shorter and more comfortable trip to temptation. Especially at the tourist price. Look, I wouldn’t have minded paying double the local fare. Might have even stretched to thrice, but if you asked ten times, then you got a fuck you—I would rather walk.

In Penang, my manic binge days are behind me. I have a more sophisticated ritual now. Every day I head over to a cafe and try a different cake. A sugar-free matcha latte or fresh juice, a slice of cake and my notebook. That’s the daily routine. I still get my sugar fix, but it feels less visceral, more controlled. I get out, sit at a cafe, write, eat, drink, walk, and get back home sweaty and ready for a shower. A change of scenery, a burst of energy, a tasty interlude to an otherwise mundane day. Is it even an addiction at this point? 

Perhaps the cake was never really about the cake, but about calming my restless mind, finding an anchor or a routine. Maybe cakes are a surrogate for normality. Or perhaps I’m just overanalysing a very basic urge to eat something sweet. 

Or maybe I just suck at self-control. 

Say what you will, cakes are always there when I need them. And that certainty keeps me coming back.

All my love,

Dummy