Cake

So I'm making a cake for She Who Has No Blog. Or, rather, I've made the cake but have not put icing on it. It made me think about the difference between making a cake out of a box and actually doing it yourself. At least for a cake as simple as the one I've made I think it adds, erm, meaning? Sifting flour, beating sugar into butter and then eggs into both. I remember one year that I wanted my mother to bake me a carrot cake. I can't remember if I vocalized this desire to her, or not but I didn't get the cake. I'm not sure how long I was home for, I think it may have been a quick Thanksgiving weekend. I ended up going to Vermont with friends. I was turning eighteen. I bought a pack of cigarettes and a lottery ticket at a gas station in Vermont. Did I? I may have bought a playboy too ... but I'm not sure about that. The friend who lived in Vermont knew of my desire for a carrot cake and one was waiting when we arrived at her house. One, maybe two, of the Vermonter's friends from home came over. We ate the cake. I assume happy birthday was sung ... but I'm not sure about that. And then the boy Vermonter friend proceeded to eat the rest of the birthday cake. Maybe he wasn't there for the singing, maybe he came later. Point is, I was saddened by the eating of the cake. I hadn't wanted to eat the rest of it by myself but I had wanted to have another piece, perhaps for breakfast.

That's what I thought about as I made She-Who's cake ... some dude almost ten years ago ate my birthday cake and I was sad. Sheesh