Sometimes I wonder: Was I born in the wrong decade? I should have been born in 1940, long after the repeal of prohibition, but right before middle class women tossed their pearls and went to work in support of the war effort.

WW2 would have ended as I was turning the tender age of 5. The world was just barely taking shape, molding itself into what we now recognize. I, at 5 would be too preoccupied with my red tricycle, or hiding behind my mother’s skirt to give the world much notice.

Life would go on that way for a few years. Eventually I could come out of my shell, out from behind my mother’s skirt and into my own.

Oh, how I yearn to have been a teenager in 1956. The years of poodle skirts, sweater sets and the early days of rock and roll; back when it was called “The Devil’s Music”.

When a newfangled device was a Television, and you wondered, “what will these geniuses think of next?!”

When a major scandal was watching Elvis shake his groove thang to “Hound Dog” on the Milton Berle Show.

When you could buy an ice cream soda and a hamburger for a like a dollar.

When it was called necking, and not making out.

When girls were named “Peggy Sue” or “Mary Ann” and everyone went to “The Hop”

When a Soda Shoppe with a Jukebox was ‘bitchin’…

When it was “risqué” to show the slightest bit of cleavage, and could earn you a reputation for being “fast”.

Everything was so simple then…

So simple…

Strawberry milk is simple…

Retro…

I’m going to take you back to days of the hop, jitterbugging and twisting away till curfew.

You need 5 ingredients to make this bitchin’ cool milk happen:

• Milk
• Strawberries
• Sugar
• Splash of vanilla extract
• Crushed ice

You crazy kids can use one of those new blender doohickeys to mix this milk together. Pour it into a retro glass and top it with a swirly straw, while you polish up those kicks and flicks. This Boss milk will put you cats on Cloud 9 in 5 minutes flat.

Bitchin’…

Relive the simpler times…

Get with it, Daddyo…

Love,

Me…

OK… I feel I should be throwing confetti… Should I be throwing confetti? Lighting up a Cohete? Should I spray you with tequila?

I’m not sure, yet all I know is there’s a celebration happening in this piece! On the Mexican pieces… They’re celebrating their ish, and because I’m an equal opportunity celebrateur, I want in on this bandwagon.

You are busy cutting up your

for the margarita keg. I get it,  you want to get that celebration underway. I caught you between sips of tequila, and it’s your turn to take a whack at the piñata. The Mariachi band is about to play.

I’ll be brief.

Frozen Mangoes… I froze fresh mangoes… Chopped them up…

Salted a margarita glass…

Got some Tequila, Cointreau, and Lemons. I juice the lemons.

I blended it…  Y ahi esta!

I just made some mango margarita magia happen… In like 10 minutes!

Get your celebration on!

Arriba!!

Feliz Cinco De Mayo!!!

Love,

Me…

P.S.  Want some more Cinco De Mayo-ish type deals?

Try these Tres Leche Cupcakes with Coconut Whipped Cream. They’ll blow your mind…

Got some time on your hands? How about Puerco Pibil? So good you’ll shoot somebody… But don’t… Seriously. Shoot your gun up in the air or something…

What Cinco De Mayo celebration goes down without cilantro and limes?

Wait, is that just me? OK, but you need something to go with your pibil… Cilantro Lime Rice is the ticket, holmes…

Let’s talk breakfast…

It’s the most important meal of the day. It is… I’ve heard… It’s on billboards and stuff.

A good breakfast kick starts your morning so you don’t accidentally put the smack down on your boss and land yourself on the unemployment line. Or jail… We don’t want that. Bail money is sometimes hard to come by.

Breakfast provides the energy needed to put up with the hardships of being a grownup, knowing in your brains playing video games and Barbie dolls don’t pay the bills, but wishing in your heart of hearts it did.

Breakfast gives you the power to think and act right; at least until about 11 am or so when you wish you had a Snickers bar. Don’t… Don’t have a Snickers bar. Not that Snickers bars aren’t great… They are, they sooo are – but you need a healthier snack. Go for peanut butter and bananas – ‘Cause you’ll need your brain powers until 5pm.

*Sigh*

OK – sometimes I don’t mean the healthy snack deal… Sometimes I say you should have a healthy snack, but I really mean you should hit a Snickers bar. Sometimes… Not all the time. But don’t feel bad if you want to be all healthy-fied. And don’t hate me for suggesting you eat a bar of nutty sugar coated in chocolate.

I’m going to keep this short and sweet, sweet being the operative word. Lemon strawberry pancakes. They’re amazing. Do you like lemon zest?  Zesting lemons transports me to a world only found in dreams. In my Technicolor doused dreams… You need in on that world.

There’s buttermilk up in this piece. Buttermilk makes everything right in the universe; the stars align and errthing.

Do you like strawberries? Me too… I softened strawberries ever so, so slightly in sugar to bring out their flavor. Don’t soften them too much, because they turn mushy on your pancakes. No one likes mushy pancakes. I don’t like mushy pancakes… I also don’t like to be blamed because you made mushy pancakes. That’s going to make me wicked sad. The strawberries have to retain their shape and offer resistance when you pierce them with a fork. 3-5 minutes will do. No more… Do not click play on your DVR remote and start watching Dancing with the Stars, and don’t start going through your Netflix queue. 3-5 minutes, ok?

These pancakes will be the most flavorful you’ve had in a while. They are mega tart from the lemon, and sweet from the strawberries that spent 5 minutes swimming in sugar. Gosh, I wish I were swimming in sugar…

Drip those pancakes in maple syrup, topped with strawberries and a pat of butter…

Hot damn…

Get in on this breakfast world, and start your mornings off right.

Love,

Me

I don’t know how to drive. I’ve haven’t even bothered to learn. As a result, I get chauffeured around like the rich and famous do, sans the tricked out Bentley.

Before you judge me, this is why I’ve never learned to drive:

A) I live in NYC, and whilst we have a functioning (albeit barely) subway system snaking its way through the veins of this city I figure, why bother? The 4, 5, and 6 trains take me anywhere I need to go.

B) I truly honestly believe driving is one of those things I will be really, really bad at.

Why? Oh, a plethora of reasons.

Starting with:

Road rage… I’ve got passenger rage, known to yell expletives at idiots on the road, who are either too slow, too fast, or are just plain… Ugh!  I’m guessing my rage will exacerbate 10 fold once I become the chick behind the wheel. I was saving my windmill skills for the zombie apocalypse, but driving might just change that.

Also:

I believe the car ends at the wheel, never taking into account the windshield, bumper, fender and front wheels… I’m going to get into like a million fender benders, I just know it. Then the road rage will kick in, things might get out of hand, and I might have to test my windmill skillz – Bottom line…  I won’t make it in prison.

They don’t bake good cookies there – Plus I’m used to the creature comforts of freedom, such as Dark and Lovely hair, and a steady variety of outfits and shoes. I will never make it. And what if the warden finds out I bake, and I’m stuck in a Shawshank Redemption situation? These are things I have to make every effort to avoid.

Last but not least…

I have NO sense of direction. NONE! I’m one of those people who should really consider walking around with a GPS and a compass. I get lost walking; I don’t pay attention to signs. I mean, I worked somewhere for 6 months, and couldn’t tell you where anything was situated. In fact, I worked right across the street from a place called New Roc City. I even had lunch with my co-workers there once a week – And when asked if I knew where New Roc City was, I said no. And I swear… I didn’t know! There were signs everywhere; I walked past them every single day.

I’m a menace to society. If I drive, I may end up in one of the plain states – And until I make friends out in Nebraska, I don’t feel it’s safe to end up thousands of miles from home where triple A or the local state troopers will have to guide an extremely hysterical Mrs. M.O.B. home. They don’t make enough tranquilizers for that.

For now, my learner’s permit is only good for the now rapidly dwindling times I get carded.

Do you think I’d fare better with a motorcycle? Ok, not a motorcycle, per say – But a Vespa. Can I join a motorcycle gang with a Vespa? I want to look bad ass. If I ride with a bunch of Harley driving motorcycle gangsters I can look bad ass.

No?

Is it because I’m driving a Vespa, and not a Harley? Vespas can be bad ass. I can be the leader of my own motorcycle gang.

No?

Is it because I have no real sense of direction? I suppose that is a crucial trait when leading a motorcycle gang, huh? A leader needs to guide her gang somewhere other than rural Wisconsin, or in concentric circles.

OK, I can dig it…

Here’s some cream cheese pound cake, which has absolutely nothing to do with Vespas, driving, or looking badass in a motorcycle jacket. Cake is something I’m terribly good at. We have a connection, cake and I. Cake and me… Both of us…

This pound cake has all the things that make life worth living; butter, sugar, flour, eggs. We can build a society around these things. We could… We should. No windshield wipers or dead insect carcasses involved.

This baby’s got cream cheese, orange zest and vanilla bean paste in it. It’s almost, a little bit, kind of like winning the lottery in your mouth. Jackpot!

Have you ever tasted a creamsicle? Well, this is what this pound cake tastes like, except you chew it. You’re chewing a creamsicle. A moist creamsicle – And holy moly is this moist – Moist like a mother******! Peep this crumb…

And I baked it in mini loaf pans… Just because I wanted to give some away, but you can be greedy and use a regular loaf pan. No worries…

I’ll leave you to drool on this, and to thank your lucky stars I’ve decided to hold off hitting the roads as the driver of any vehicle, other than my bicycle for a while longer.

Trust… You’re still safe.

Love,

Me…

Summer snuck up on you this week, and I know what you’re thinking…

You don’t want to shave your legs.

Your legs had sprouted 2 furry Chia pets, which you were content to keep up for another month or so.

I’m not judging you… In fact, I wish I were you. Unfortunately, working in a corporate environment is not conducive to furry gorilla legs. It’s a Bummer, I tell you… Winters are wicked cold.

You don’t want to let go of the fur. You want to pass your legs off as a pair of knee high Ugg boots in 80 degree weather.

I understand, but you can’t… You just can’t… Let it go… Whip out that Epil lady or Venus razor and get shaving… Hook up them legs with some lotion, girl. Make them soft, supple, and decidedly less… Ashy…

Throw on a nice skirt, some espadrilles and let those legs see some vitamin D from Mr. Sun.

We’ll talk about dinner in a second…

….

….

….

Now wasn’t that nice? Did you enjoy the weather? Did you notice that guy staring at your smooth cocoa butter legs?

What?!

You liked that…

You’re welcome…

You don’t want to spend too much time cooking today… I can dig that. You just shaved your legs, and it took a while. You clogged your tub, because the last time your legs saw a razor was late September. I get it; but newly shaven chicks have GOTS to eat.

Flow with me… I’m going to make this easy on you…

Skillet Lasagna – All you need is a skillet, some no boil lasagna sheets and this lasagna is ready in 30 minutes. 30 MINUTES! ON THE STOVE TOP! No 425 degree Fahrenheit oven forcing you to further crank up your AC, sweating the cocoa butter off your legs. Grab some forks and dig in straight from the skillet. Watch that well overdue season of True Blood. Best part? Your dirty dishes are one skillet and a few forks. #Truelifestory

OK, so you don’t want to be bothered with turning on the stove. I dig that too. I was feeling that groove just last night, so I made this Cilantro Lime Chickpea salad.

The dressing is killer, and all you needs is a food processor and a bowl. The only thing you chop is onions. All else is taken care of by the food processor.

Don’t dig chickpeas? It’s cool. Try this corn and black bean salad, instead. It’s bright, refreshing, and takes less than 15 minutes to prepare. You can grate some cheddar, grab some four tortillas and turn it into a wrap. If you’re gluten-free or vegan you can omit the cheese and the tortilla. Go for this…

Are you thinking, maybe, you just want to eat crackers for dinner? Why don’t you spread this tasty spinach basil and walnut pesto on your crackers? Who wants to eat boring old crackers for dinner, anyway?

Perhaps you’re the type who likes to drink your dinner.  That’s cool… Respect… Make this strawberry banana smoothie. It’s a meal in a glass, and who doesn’t love strawberries and swirly straws?

Or how about this morir soñando? I’ve remixed this classic Latin drink with almond milk. #Creamsiclelove.

Let’s say you’re a lush, and you like to tip back the bottle for dinner? I’m not judging you. Sometimes a chick just needs a drink. Or 7… Whatever… Just keep it fancy, and try this strawberry mint mojito. If you’re a lush, you clearly have some strawberry infused vodka in your liquor storage…  If not, I just hooked you up…

You want your dinner sweet and frozen? I got you, boo… I’ve got sherbet for days… Sherbet gives you almost, almost the consistency of ice cream without all the calories, the fat, and the custard cooking and straining. Easy…

Strawberry Sherbet… Cooking down strawberries and swirling them in heavy cream… Delicious…

Orange Sherbet – Orange sherbet just makes everything brighter…

And let’s face it, honey – You’re gonna need it because next stop is a pedicure…

Pro tip?

Give yourself a pre-pedicure at home before you hit the spa. No one needs to know you’ve been setting off sparks every time you take a step on bare feet.

Love…

Me…

I had a headache for 4 straight days before I decided to do something about it. It felt like I was repeatedly stabbed by an invisible torture master holding an icepick, who for “funsies” periodically pierced the inside of my right ear. All day… All night… All ouch, all the time.

I, of course, panicked (4 days later) – And thought it was an aneurysm, certain to drop dead into a bowl of corn chowder. My mom didn’t make it easier suggesting I request an MRI because yes, it might be an aneurysm.

The mere fact that I might be thisclose to meeting my maker put everything in alarming perspective. While I silently hoped someone would have the decency to pull corn kernels out my nose should said horrible death occur, I called my Dr. demanding an appointment.

Stress level raised to the breaking point, I sat in the waiting room chewing my cuticles away and mentally making out my last will and testament. I silently bequeathed my shoes, handbags, and Garbage Pail Kid sticker collection to my daughter. My son gets the action figures and my wedding dress, which he requested at a mere 5 years of age.

The Dr. finally calls me in. I explain my symptoms, ending with, “It’s not an aneurysm is it? I’m not going to drop dead in here am I?” He gave me a look that’s a mixture of pity and amusement before he pats my hand and says, “No, it’s not an aneurysm, but it could be ricketts”

“Ricketts?! Don’t pirates get ricketts?”

He gave me the part amusement, part pity look again and says, “No, that’s scurvy. And I swear if it weren’t for his upbringing, he would have called me a dumbass.

Turns out I had a sinus infection, my first, which was relieved by a round of antibiotics and corticosteroids. I feel better, but I’ve felt loads guilty for not writing for so dang long. Gosh, I missed you… Missed this space…

Sooo… I brought you German chocolate cake doughnuts, and doughnut holes slathered in coconut pecan frosting.

I used the chocolate cake doughnut recipe, and German chocolate frosting from Lara Ferroni’s book Doughnuts, which has become one of my favorite cookbooks. It’s got butter marks and oil splatters all over it – And maybe a smudge or two of chocolate and doughnut dough. Yea, I get all touchy-feely with my books.

I cut and fried about 4 doughnuts before I had the grand idea of making doughnut holes instead. Mistake or genius? You be the judge…

The dough is chocolaty; but not overwhelmingly so, imparting a very subtle cocoa flavored doughnut. The frosting… Well, that’s a whole ‘nother deliciously delicious talk show. If you make them, just make sure some frosting actually makes it to the doughnuts. Give your hips a chance to breathe a sigh of relief.

I went the fried route, because my mind couldn’t wrap itself around baked doughnuts that day. Plus I figure why just stick your toe in water, making it all healthy and whatnot? Dive in, dude…

Dive in…!

Love,

Me…

P.S. As you can see, I didn’t post the recipe. I didn’t reach out to Lara in time to ask; but when I do, and she gives me the OK, I will post it with my adaptations. In the meantime, buy the book! For serious…

I woke up last Sunday morning with a start, having just dreamed in customary technicolor and realized, “Oh snap – The sun is setting two hours later today!!”

I wanted to go back to sleep, but for people who write about food, and struggle (struggle like a motherf*****) to capture food at its natural best, this tidbit of information is tantamount to discovering the fabled city of Shangri-La…

Or Xanadu…

Wait – Which is the city with the skates again?

Never mind…

Spring is almost here and you can smell the excitement intermingled with pollution in the air. The trees are blossoming, the weather is getting warmer, guys are gearing up to have some almost nekkid eye candy flaunting their ‘ish around.

It’s spring, baby…

The spring baby bumps have made their debut, providing further proof of what was goin’ down between the sheets during cold nights, and even colder winter mornings. Proof that love was in the air, or rocking the backseat of a Buick Skylark.

Oh, wait – it’s not 1973. I meant the back of the 2010 Hybrid…

What I’m talking about is winter love here. Betcha didn’t know about that; but winter love exists, folks.

Let a sista’ school you…Flow with me…

Winter love comes in forms that warm the belly, such as a hearty stew or a good chicken pot pie. In warm chocolate cakes, or nice warm sticky buns.

It comes in forms that warm your heart – Like snuggling with your honey and making each other warm with your na-tu-rale body heat; warming each other’s cold toes beneath the duvet – Then moving onto, um, other things beneath the duvet.

Oh snap – Is it getting hot in here?  Let’s talk cupcakes…

Carrot and orange cupcakes are “right before the curtain goes down and it all fades to black” winter love.

I’m damn ready for spring, slowly relinquishing my winter Bruce Lee Kung-Fu grip. I’m moving away from the hearty comfort meals and onto lighter food fare.

It’s happening… To all of us… The collective unclenching of muscles, the sighs of relief; we survived another winter without slipping on a patch of ice. It’s the little things….

Now, before I embrace spring, Let me kick it to ya with a lil’ winter hearty,  a taste that exemplifies winter comfort. A sort of last hurrah… A carrot cupcake big enough for two.

Carrots and a heavily spiced flour make the base for these delicacies.

Nuts for a bit ‘o crunch…

Pineapples for moisture…

Bringing up the rear, rounding out this robust cupcake is orange zest. A whole tablespoon of it. I think this will make you wanna smack yo’ mama. Don’t, though – Because yo’ mama may come at you with a hot skillet.

Orange zest isn’t all, oh no – What’s really gonna blow your mind is the orange/vanilla cream cheese frosting that finishes the cupcakes off.

Do  you see the flecks of zest?

Hot damn…Creamsicle winter love…

I may or may not have been tempted to suck the frosting out of the piping bag. I may or may not have actually done that… I also may or may not have hoarded some frosting for um, later… 15 minutes later…

I’ve said too much.

Before you start bringing up your summer gear from storage, I’d like you to think about winter love and bake these cupcakes. Snuggle with your sweetie under your floral spring duvet, gaze into each other’s eyes, warm up each other’s toes. Take turns feeding each other KILLER carrot orange cupcakes from the same spoon.

It’s sex-i-fed, winter love is…

Oh, um…

Yea…

If it, um – Goes any further than that, and you find yourself on the receiving end of a December baby… I WILL NOT be held accountable.

You’re going to blame it on the cupcakes, or that slammin’ frosting.

OK?

Cool beans…

Love,

Me

As I looked in the mirror this morning I discovered one more eye wrinkle. I thought, “Damn, I’m getting wicked old”.

I’m usually horrified at the thought and every so often the “kick in the gut” nostalgia kicks in, making me yearn for days when I sported six pack abs, and the fresh face of a Ponds girl. I got over it quickly – OK, I may or may not have worn something slightly inappropriate to work to make myself feel better.

Oh, time marches on – And though I am grateful to have approached the last of my MILF years (almost) intact, the signs are difficult to ignore; or accept, rather… Oh, you know what I’m talkin’ about – Subtle signs which are less straightforward than wrinkles, grandma hands, and stray chin hairs.

The, “Oh, so subtle” signs that prove time marches on and your ass is getting old.

Flow with me, I’ve got examples…

-          If you have trouble explaining to your kids what a rotary phone looked like… That’s a sign…

-          If when listening to your favorite radio station the DJ says, “Let me kick it up with some classics”, and pumps songs YOU were jamming to when you reached young adulthood… That’s a sign…

-          If when bending to reach for something your knees pop like firecrackers… That’s a sign… And perhaps you ought to consider a vitamin regimen, or WD40.

-          If your phrases begin with “When I was your age” or “People didn’t behave that way in my day!” … That’s a sign.

-          If you get “little kid” excited when you see a cassette player, and magically whip out a “mix tape” … That’s a sign, homie.

Signs – Try as we might to ignore, become a daily reminder we’re aging… Every single one of us, dude – Believe it…

*Sigh*…

You know what never gets old?

Salads…

Salads are never considered old, passé, obsolete – Instead salads seem to be frozen in time. Salads have the secret to the fountain of youth written in old parchment. They get reg shots of Juviderm and Botox, and know the best plastic surgeons for tummy tucks and face-lifts.

Salads have timeless power we can only dream of. There are whole chapters in cookbooks dedicated to the everlasting staying power of salads, and there’s even a month dedicated to it.

Am I rambling?

Damn…

Just make this salad…You don’t even need to pop your dentures in, you can just gum it to death. Blood oranges, softened onions, and spinach make up this baby. AND! There’s an orange dressing that will rock your pants off, and offset that slightly bitter flavor raw spinach seems to give off. You can even add some feta cheese if you like. It’s delicious, it’s simple, it’s fast, and it won’t aggravate your arthritic hands… Much…

Did I mention an orange dressing that’s going to rock your pants off?

Is that inappropriate, rocking your pants off? Or does it make you feel young?

-Botox Desperate Housewives young – Or MTV Spring Break circa 1994 young?

You tell me…

Love,

Me…

I’m going to take you back, back to High school.

Was High School awkward for you? It was for me. I mean real awkward.

Were you the chubby kid?

Or the skinny kid whom everyone referred to as the broom stick, or Olive Oyl?

Were you the smelly kid, or the ugly duckling?

Were you the shy kid?

The poor kid?

Those were the outcasts of my day. Kids whose exterior either didn’t merit a second look or were the object of much ridicule, private and public. The kids you took a look at, but usually saw through.

These were kids whom no one really gravitated towards. You often saw them alone, or with a group of other outcasts. No one ever got past the surface, ever thought to wonder if beyond their exterior lay a wonderful human being. Someone whose insides were, indeed, beautiful…

We went through our four years and probably gave no thought to their personal plight. We had problems of our own… We had hairspray and the latest sneakers to covet. We had MTV and BET… We were dancing, and making out in school corridors. We were discovering our bodies and the bodies of um… Others (not me mom, totally wasn’t doing any of that). We were too busy recording songs off the radio to give others much thought.

It was beyond our realm of thinking…

Once High School was over we went our separate ways – And while we made lives for ourselves, left marks in our respective worlds, the outcasts made radical transformations.

• The chubby kid went on a diet – Ran for the track team and swam in the mornings.
• The skinny kid finally bloomed, got herself a booty and is now STUH-HACKED.
• The smelly kid discovered the benefits of hygiene and began using the shower and shampoo regularly.
• The ugly duckling finally grew into her looks. Her nose is no longer too big for her face, her braces came off, her hair is beauty parlor styled. Her eyebrows no longer connect unappealingly; they are now two distinct brows.
• The shy kid developed confidence, is now running for  congress – And is a hell of a public speaker.
• The poor kid worked hard, went to school almost round the clock, and became an entrepreneur. He then sold his company to Google for untold millions.

You see these kids, now grownups, and you can’t help but double-take. How did “so and so” end up like THAT?

Well, this is how I feel about these banana bread snickerdoodles. I had three very very ripe, fugly bananas rotting on my counter. I could have thrown them away without a second look – But I decided to open them up, check out the inside situation. I found they were perfectly fine, beautiful in fact. They were whole, nary a bruise…

Just beautiful…

So what did I do?

I put forth some effort… Gave these bananas some attention, some love… With some flour, brown sugar and spices I turned these fugly forgotten “not worth a second look” bananas into something amazing; worthy of a double-take.

A “HOT DAMN – You look good, so must taste good” double-take.

A Mmm… ”Come here, baby, let me look atcha again” double-take.

I gave them a makeover worthy of a Ricki Lake episode, and made them taste like tiny little crunchy banana breads.

These…

Cookies…

Might make you drool.

Foh sho’…

Life’s too short… You miss out when you whip out your judgy stick, wasting time beating on the superficial. It’s meaningless. I learned early not to judge people or things by their exterior – And to this day I’m glad I did – Because I would have missed out on some real good s***…

Like these cookies…

Love,

Me…

If I admit to something, will you think any less of me?

Alright… Alright…

I’m going to take my chances… Here it goes…

I’m a bulk shopper…

Allow me to explain…

I own no less than 80 rolls of toilet paper, maybe more – And at last count there’s somewhere in the vicinity of 130 rolls of paper towels in my basement. I buy flour by the 50lb bag (4 different flours), sugar by the 100lb bag and I have no less the 44lbs of chocolate scenting my closets. I won’t mention how much soap I own, or laundry detergent, or deoderant. You get the idea.

Why do I own 80 rolls of toilet paper? Before you say, “this chick is CLEARLY a hoarder”, allow me to further explain…

I hate running out of toilet paper. I hate sitting on the toilet, doin’ my “bidness” and suddenly realizing I have nothing to wipe my butt with. Fair enough, right?

No, wait – I’m not being 100% truthful, here. This is the true reason: I fear the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse.

There, I said it…

Yes – I mean, really – Don’t you share this very same fear? If there’s a zombie apocalypse we’ll be in a state of fear…

FEAR…

Meaning, you’ll need to go to the bathroom a lot…

A LOT…

Because fear does something to the bowels. Not pretty…

I’m not putting myself in that precarious position; catching zombies in the head on my way to the supermarket for a roll of toilet paper?  That’s crazy! I don’t even know HOW to hold a gun. What if there’s a zombie in the checkout counter of my local supermarket? Oh, jeez – I’m no good in these situations. I can’t run, I can’t shoot, I can’t fight – The most I can do is windmill the zombie until its shoulder pops off with a sickening, slimy thud.

Then I’ll scream… And not run… Because I can’t run, remember? I’ll just scream till I pop a blood vessel and the zombie eats my brain.

Now I’ve worked myself up…

*Deep breath*…

So I stock up hardcore, so when that zombie apocalypse happens I won’t need to leave the house. Dammit, I may have to further stock up on canned goods, water, and Twinkies. I’ll let the renegades with AK47’s or sawed off shotguns take care of the zombies. Renegades are bad asses.

Woo…! I just gave you a whole lotta crazy…

And for this very reason I’m going to distract you with these…

Egg yolks…

Not good enough?

How about these…

Maraschino cherries?

These egg whites beaten to stiff peaks?

Oh, all right…

Am I getting close with this batter in giant muffin tins?

Or…

How about this spoonful of cold coconut milk?

Sexy…

I’ve thrown you off; diverted you from my bout of the cray-crays. Redirected your focus to these cupcakes soaked in a three milk mixture.

You see how I did that? There’s rum in these mofos, too. (RUM!) Cupcakes imbibed with 3 milks and a lil’ bit ‘o’ rum… So nice you say it twice…

Twice…

Oh, and let us not forget a coconut whipped cream to top cupcakes clearly big enough for two – Or one …

Whatever…

Sprinkle some toasted coconut, and a cherry on top…

That’s what’s uuuuup!

Cupcakes you clearly have to eat with a spoon. You’re fancy, right? Or eat like a renegade and wipe your hands on your jeans, shotgun ‘tween your legs.

Hardcore, yo.

See? I’m not here to distract you from my insane fear of a zombie apocalypse, my even more insane fear of running out of toilet paper - Or my clear lack of fighting skills with cupcakes.

 Goodness, no… Why would I ever do such a thing?

Love,

Me…