Okay, I like cake. I don’t like it as much as pie, or pah, as those in the know call it. Pah is like a delicious sammich, open-faced (or not!), cut into triangles, like all good sammiches are. Pah > cake. This is fact.
But my mom is really good at things, like blaming Spock for stealing her technology that doesn’t exist yet, and knitting scarves. She is also good at making cake. That woman can bake. Bake cake. And pah! Delicious pah! But also cake.
That’s why I’ve come here tonight. On Saturday, a mere two days ago, mom made banana cake (sans nuts, because nuts in cake is like whoa, what the fuck is this shit) in a bundt pan. As it baked it made the whole house smell of warm, tasty banana folded into spiced cake batter. Claire was there, she can attest to this. That cake was gonna be mine!
Well, when it was done and cooled enough to cut, mom gave Claire a big ol’ piece of cake to take home. Then over the next 24 hours, that cake fucking disappeared like it was made of toilet paper, until there was nothing left but a large-ish slice, and I had yet to enjoy it. WHAT THE FUCK. Tonight I come home and there is this one piece of cake left and I say: uh, hey, that cake is mine, since you people went to damn town on the rest of it, so DON’T TOUCH. Dad even tried to blame the fast disappearance of the cake on the cat, AS IF.
My plan for the cake was to settle down and really savor this cake. Take some time with it. Give it the love it deserved.
Three seconds later:
For comparison’s sake, and because I didn’t have the foresight (or the time, apparently) to take a picture of the cake beforehand, imagine a piece of cake that takes up about half the surface of that plate, which is actually a teacup saucer. That was a pretty big slice of cake.
It’ll be worth the stomachache later.