Next time I move homes I want a cake in the shape of my new house. There must be something symbolic about eating a replica of your home. What could it mean?
Nothing says love like a heart shaped dessert delicately dusted with cocoa powder. Sadly, I fear cocoa powder as it seems inevitable that I will accidentally breathe some of it in when I take the first bite and then I'll cough all crazy and destroy everything. How I wish I could enjoy a dusted treat.
We just had an old chair reupholstered recently and decided not to have tufted cushions because those damn buttons catch on everything and rip out all the time. In cake form, the only thing buttons have to worry about is my sneaky fingers popping them off and eating them.
I have a good friend who doesn't really have any furniture in his apartment. He has a computer and a desk and a million musical instruments but nothing to sit on. I so badly want to make him a whole set of living room furniture he can't use.
I need to sit down. I need to breathe calmly into this bag to keep from fainting because this is possibly the most perfect cake I have ever seen and I've been looking at cakes for a long while, my friends. I marvel at the gradient pinks, the delicate layers, the thin filling that doesn't interrupt the gorgeous color. And the little paper banner on top! Perfection! I can die happy now, thanks!