I have lofty aspirations of being a Martha Stewart/Becky Home-Ecky type. More often than not, I just end up being a Becky Home-Icky.
Case in point: Our birthday girl, Vivian, requested pink cake. I was determined to make her the best pink cake ever. A labor of love.
I started my baking adventure after the kids went to sleep. I pulled out the ingredients and provisions. Whipped up the cake batter and a buttercream frosting that was to die for. It was creamy and decadently delicious with fluffy pink peaks.
I couldn't wait to frost that cake. But I also couldn't wait to get to sleep. I'll just assemble and frost in the morning. Right?
Overnight, it turned into concrete. Stiff, but delicious, concrete.
I let it thaw a bit. OK, I thought; well, maybe I'll just frost the cake and stick it back in the fridge.
So I frosted the bottom layer. It was fine. Translucent, kind of crumby. But fine. Then I placed the top layer on the bottom layer and it cracked in slow motion. Deep, deep chocolate crevasses formed.
I stood there speechless.
Peter saw me staring dejectedly at the broken cake.
"Look at it. It's ruined!" I wailed.
What I saw as a complete mess he saw differently.
"Well, first of all, she's 2. She doesn't really care what her cake looks like. And look, the cracks in the cake form a "V" for Vivian."
Why does he have to go and make so much sense?
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