I am not a baker.
The conservative, private, Christian university I attended was swarming with hundreds of female homemakers-to-be. Their hobbies included baking, cooking, baking for their boyfriends, cooking for their boyfriends, and probably cleaning. I dislike all of those things, so it’s no surprise that my some of my best friends at the school were the beatnik jazz band members who occasionally (daily) smoked a bowl or two. That part really has nothing to do with this topic, but I just want you to understand that I don’t bake.
WIth one exception.
My dogs’ birthday was today, so I whipped up a little cake for each of them (a recipe I found online). Anyway, the birthday girls, Cleo and Claude (shh, I know it’s a boy name) are 11 today, and I had never made them a cake before. (This accomplishment might be attributed to genetics. My great-grandfather, Stanislauv Rudolph Krawczyk, immigrated as a child to Chicago from Poland. He grew up to be a baker. He would be proud.) I suppose the cake was okay, though I didn’t try it due to my distaste of peanut butter. Cleo and Claude gobbled it up, and that’s all that matters.
Honestly, I’ve been completely freaked out the past week or so because Claude hasn’t been eating. This is never a good sign for an older dog, so each time she refused to eat her dog food, then rice+chicken, then her favorite food-popcorn- I thought she was dying. Fortunately, since yesterday, she has been doing much better, so I wanted to go all out for this birthday. (I’ve never made them cakes before). I’ve had these pretty girls since I was 12, so they both mean everything to me.
Thanks for reading.