“What kind of cake did you get, Riley?” our neighbor Ruth asked last night, as we hung out in the front yard. “Chocolate or yellow?”
“Raspberry ambrosia,” I answered for him.
Ruth made the universal “Oh Jesus Christ” face, presumably since the cake was only for a three year old. But when it comes to baked goods, nothing’s too gourmet for my kid.
Then I gave her a piece and that shut her right up.
My favorite (CAKE) bakery churns out these majestic masterpieces of raspberry orgasms and caps it off with a proper powdered sugar ejacualtion and every bite is a money shot, I fucking promise. I have been obsessed with this cake for years. In fact, one year, I threw a birthday party for Henry (I know, wrap your head around THAT one — me doing something selfless for that man), and when I went to pick up his cake at Bethel Bakery (let me also add that I declined their offer of an iced inscription; it said nary a Happy Birthday), I bought myself a raspberry ambrosia cake. Yes, it was Henry’s birthday, but I was still the Queen. I will never forget gathering around the dining room table and explaining, “The plain cake is Henry’s, but that magnificent bitch right there is mine” and of course, none of my friends were fazed by this, but Henry’s sister and the one friend of his I bothered to invite looked a little appalled.
That night is still referred to as “The party where Erin bought herself the ‘good cake’.
So yeah, never mind, I guess the whole birthday-party-for-Henry thing wasn’t as selfless of a manuever as I imagined it was back then.
I sent Henry off on his own to retrieve the cake, and after the Easter pie debacle, I’m awfully relieved he didn’t come home with another contestant of the What Were They Thinking OMG Hideous Pie competition.
We also got a half dozen cupcakes from my favorite CUPCAKE bakery, Vanilla Pastry Studio.
As soon as the candles on the cake were snuffed out by his dirty trucker breath, he bypassed the cake and tore into a lemon cucpake. I guess he knew that cake was really for mommy.
Thank you for being born, Choochie, if only to give Mommy another acceptable day to stuff her face with 16,879 sugar-crystaled calories.