Happy Birthday to Me

I baked my own birthday cake. For the second year in a row. This seems to really bother people. I guess some people think baking is a painful, unfulfilling task. For me, it is therapy. It is meditation. It is a connection to my mother and my departed grandfather and probably countless other hard-working, agrarian ancestors that I never had the chance to meet. So stop telling me not to bake my own birthday cakes!

This year I chose The Grit’s Chocolate Peanut Butter Cake. It was supposed to have three layers, but when application of the third made it near a tottering disaster, I opted for only two and used the third as part of our fondue project. The homemade cream cheese and peanut butter frosting was the best part.

This brings me to the fact that I am desperately craving The Grit. Some days I download the pdf menu from the web site just to relive all the gastronomic memories. There are many things I miss about college towns like Athens. They include good music, cheap beer, bike paths that go places that are actually useful, and access to more than one restaurant with edible, affordable, inspired food. Ah, Cape Cod. What I would do to improve upon your stuffy old-person-ness. At least my birthday cake brought me a little closer to what I miss, and without all the frat boys and republicans.

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This is an article that was posted on Jan 10, 12:55 PM.

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Comment [3]

  1. ~bc Jan 10, 02:39 PM

    Great. Now you’ve got me drooling into my keyboard. You saved some for us this weekend, right?

  2. jake Jan 10, 03:54 PM

    Well I imagine the first instinct is that someone else should be making it for you. But the more important issue is that the cake is being shared.

    Do all the baking you want, just pass the end result around. ;)

  3. saucygrrl Jan 15, 07:07 PM

    I take offense at the stuffy old-peopleness missy. ;b Especially when I’m all of three years older. Oh I totally hear you on the baking. I used to do it a lot more in Jersey when I knew I could either take it to work or drop it by at friends. Alas, the three hundred miles that separates me from those I know leaves my oven oddly empty.

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