First of all, one's sanity should never ride on a cake.
As most inanimate objects, it cannot apologize when it does not pull through or pour you a glass of wine to make up for its shortcomings.
But. It had been that kind of week. A week when a cake can seem like a God-send. A week when you can bring yourself to believe in nothing more than sweet, sugary confections.
So there I was. Spending the better part of my Saturday afternoon scouring the aisles of the supermarket for all the makings of this so-called heaven sent cake.
Sugar, eggs, flour, butter, etc., etc. And a bit of hazelnut liqueur, intended to go straight from bottle to batter, but most of which went from bottle to highball and straight to...
Like I told you, it had been that kind of week.
I tentatively watched the oven. And as the cake batter rose, so did my mood.
(See, you can do something right)
By the time, it was time to frost, the tops of my two layers were evenly shaved, the kitchen near spotless, and my china laid out.
(See, everything is coming together perfectly, just like your life will)
Then, right as I started feeling better, the freshly zested orange zest frosting turned out like this...
...like someone had
puked all over my chocolate hazelnut flavored
hopes and dreams cake.
I found myself back at square one...
(What. The. Eff. What a whack frosting recipe)
...taking a bite of my sad little cake and sighing with surprisingly sweet satisfaction.
(It may not look perfect on the outside, but it sure is damn good).
