Mmmmm, tasty

Not long ago, Angela Marie wrote about the notoriously underdeveloped palates children have when it comes to fine baked goods, and she offered as evidence the fact that her child's classmates enjoyed a batch of chocolate cupcakes that were less than perfect.

The description she gave of the cupcakes was so intoxicating that I begged for the recipe, promising never to make or distribute them in her home state.

She was generous enough to oblige, and yesterday, Bee and I made a batch.

That's my son's ladyfriend, who is unanimously adored around Bookish Farm.

Also, she has been known to read this here Internet Thingy, and even has the charming decency to be mildly shocked at how often I use the word fuck.

She's a sweet girl.

I'm not a seasoned pastry chef. Cooking is just not among my meager talents. I'm not even a very good eater, for that matter. I'd be perfectly happy eating the same two or three dishes* every day for the rest of my life.

*Dishes that, ironically, are not available in any restaurant in a 60-mile radius of our home.

The point is that I don't cook often or particularly well, which speaks volumes about Angela Marie's cupcake recipe, because (cover your eyes H-------) holyfuckingwiltonpans those cupcakes are delicious.

Bee and I made them to welcome home our Hot Shot Husband/Papa, who returned last night in lake effect snow warning conditions from Florida, where his sister has surgery last week.

We made regular cupcakes, and we also made a pan of heart-shaped cakes. Those were Bee's favorites, and she sighed blissfully as she frosted one of them: "They make me want to love."

These cupcakes are, without exception, the best cake product I have ever eaten. My only dilemma is deciding what to call them.

• Angela Marie's Effing Good Cupcakes

• Blogcakes

• Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner

• Internet Strangercakes, because every time my husband sees me reading a blog or hears a story about something I read, he asks if I'm checking in with my Internet Strangers.

Thank you, Angela Marie. You've changed my life. And probably my jeans size.

I AIN'T SAYING SHE'S A GOLD-DIGGER

Last week, Bee announced over dinner one night that she and a little girl in her class named A---- had gotten married that day.

"That sounds like a lot of fun," I told her. "Is A---- one of your really good friends?"

She didn't answer because she was too busy humming the wedding march with her mouth full of pierogie.

"Why did you and A---- decide to get married?"

This is going to be great, I thought. In her little girl innocence, she's going to say something about the nature of love that we adults should all take to heart. I opened my mental notebook and prepared to take dictation.

She shrugged. "A---- and I got married to N------- because he was a prince."

TEETHING, CLIMBING, RENOVATING

Baby Posey has had a fussy week, what with her HSP being out of town. In his absence, she latched on to me even more forcefully. You should see the bruises.

The constant trail of saliva that has been hanging from her mouth like a fire escape ladder tells me that she's also teething, which couldn't have helped matters.

When she's not drooling or clenching one of my nipples in her vicelike little manhands because I threatened to put her down, she has been climbing. She climbs on the chairs. She climbs onto the dowels under out trestle-style dining table. She climbs onto the base of her highchair and looks like she's sailboarding.

She is not afraid of anything. Yesterday, she tried to climb onto the front of the Dyson - while I was vacuuming.

She and Bee are such different creatures. Bee covers her ears and flushes the toilet with her elbow. Posey wants to ride the vacuum.

She is not only fearless, but amazingly strong as well. Here she is crawling away after pulling up a slate tile from our entry hallway.

And while Bee likes to lick the chocolate batter from the beaters

Posey drinks hot sauce straight from the bottle.

I'm a good mom.

Comments

[lila]

next you'll be wearing one of these
http://www.johnnycupcakes.com/shop/war-shirt

[ppb]

You're the best.