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)
You’ve made a discovery: The distance between your mouth and stomach is exactly 16 biscuits.
Despite your attempts to cure it with dough, your laptop has died. Maybe it was feed a cold, starve a virus?
(Hey all! Sadly my laptop fell victim to age and overuse. No, I did *not* put pie crust in the dvd drive, tempting as it was. I’m back and transferring files like a fiend. —Erika)
At last, after long years of suffering, you’ve found way to make yogurt palatable.
You wasted yet another evening lurking in lonely bakers chatrooms. Alas, the handle SavoryMuffins didn’t generate the interest you’d hoped.
By the time you got to the chorus of So Happy Together the waiter had you escorted out.
You’re having one of those days. The kind of day where you wall yourself in a protective bread bunker and slowly eat your way out.
Your family staged an intervention. The framed pictures were fine, as were the mugs and the cross stitch samplers, but your cookie dough body pillow was a bridge too far.
And as the outside world pounded at the edges of your consciousness—a madding horde of bills, appointments, awkward family get togethers, and personal hygiene—you cowered in your blanket bunker and stacked your breakfast plates high against the encroaching darkness. Everything was waffles and bacon and nothing hurt.