Remember that cake I didn't bake for you yesterday when you came to see the Sweat Shop? Well, I baked it tonight, and it's just come out of the oven--it's cooling now, and I should be able to frost it soon. Chocolate torte with a mousse frosting--doesn't that sound yummy? I'm afraid, though, that it's not going to look as pretty as I would have liked. You see, I have a house in which things disappear. Like my cake pans. I used to have the greatest cake pans with removeable bottoms but I haven't been able to find them for quite some time now. I suspect my son took them--he likes to cook. I even had some not-so-great cake pans, but they're nowhere to be found either. I'm sure it's my husband's fault. It always is.
You know those plastic containers you can buy at the grocery store now that are fairly inexpensive (much less expensive than Tupperware!)? Some companies are selling lunch meat in them. You know the ones I mean. Every now and then, I'll buy a package, or save the containers when the lunch meat is gone. And every now and then I'll hear my husband packaging up leftovers for the kids or other family members and friends, saying, "Oh, don't bother returning them. They're just throw aways." Yep, easy for him to say. Every dollar spent on those "throw aways" is one less dollar for fabric! (Our household is based on a fabric economy, by the way. That stash I showed you yesterday? It's kind of like a 401k plan for my retirement.) My husband loves to take leftovers to work for his lunch every day. Wouldn't it be funny if one of these days there's nothing to package them up in? Ha!
You know what it probably is? Doing the dishes is my husband's "chore." Maybe if he convinces himself that everything in the kitchen is a "throw away," he can justify not washing anything. After all, I'm sure that taking out the garbage is much less time consuming than washing dishes!
So, anyway, I have cake. Funny looking cake. No, it won't look anything like the picture that began this blog. Since I have no cake pans, I made the two layers in pie plates. I think I'll take my husband's piece out to him, where he's watching TV in the living room, on a spatula and serve it into his hands; I'll tell him the dishes are missing--must have been throw aways.
Would you like to come by for that piece of cake now? You're more than welcome! I'll put the coffee on . . . .