You’ve finally perfected the one ingredient breakfast.
It’s not technically a sugar overdose until you wake up in the Port Authority covered in crumbs and wearing a stolen bunny suit. Like last Easter.
Your tombstone will read, “A little raw egg never killed anyone.”
You’re not confusing food with love; pie just deeply appreciates cuddling and your taste in romantic ballads.
You spend most nights crimping and fluting. Your mother is disappointed those aren’t euphemisms.
Anonymous asked: OMG YAY ARE YOU FINALLY BACK?!!! I LOVE YOUUUUU
You never really left. You just spent the last seven months trapped under a pie plate avalanche.
As ever, you’re flattered, but your heart belongs to a flirty little bear claw who made eyes at you across a cafe while you inhaled an inferior croissant.
Bread listed you as a dependent on its tax return.
flutterbybaking asked: This blog is literal perfection. All your own work?
You’d blush but it would melt the butter that’s somehow stuck to your cheeks. Yes, happily (and shamefully) this blog is just one person/baker/writer/lump.
This is you with sugar bigger than your head:
This is you writing novels like the productive human being you are:
It’s also been a while since you’ve been here. You’re trying to remedy that by firing up the oven again. You may or may not have just cooked a dustbunny.
(The family matriarch passed away, a novel sold, and life just did what it does Mack Truck style.)
Fourteen scones and an elastic waistband later, your High Tea has reached a New Low.
You believe that cake is for special occasions… like blinking.
(This cake collage is to celebrate… my book deal. Yes, I’ve managed to sell my novel to St. Martin’s Press. This is just a smattering of the cakes I’ve baked while working on it. Have a look at my process so far and what’s to come for The Book of Speculation over here. Thanks so much for laughing and ogling baked goods with me. -Erika)
Despite this year’s “back cakes” containment ring strategy, you still managed to eat the entirety of your grandmother’s birthday cake. Again.
(A note from the baker: This was in fact the cake I made for my mother’s birthday last year. It was a Black Magic cake—her favorite since childhood. She passed away this weekend. I’ll be on hiatus for a bit. Thank you for your patience and kindness. —Erika)