My husband’s birthday is tomorrow. Every year I bake him a cake from scratch. Well, no that’s not true, every year since we got married and moved in together. When we were dating, I didn’t even have the gas turned on in my apartment. There were cobwebs in the oven.
I wish I could say that was a joke.
Anyway, cake. Each year I ask my man what he wants. He always comes up with some complicated request, and I take one look at the 50-step recipe, and then decide to make chocolate cake instead. Chocolate cake with raspberry filling. Chocolate cake with cream cheese icing. Chocolate cake with strawberries and cream.
This year, I decided to make something different. The only problem is that I don’t know what to make, and I’m running out of time to decide. And then it occurred to me – Bon Appétit.
Long time readers of the Cowardly Feminist know I am one of those awful people that loves Christmas. I decorate, I mix cocktails from Halloween to New Year’s, and I cook. So last year in the midst of my holiday frenzy I ordered a subscription to Bon Appétit, which I quickly discovered is useless. First, I don’t eat meat, and it’s a fairly meat-based foodie mag. Second, a lot of the shit in it requires equipment I don’t own. And while I’d love to have the doo-dads to make my own bread or pasta or whatever other Martha Stewart-y dish you can think of, there is no room in our kitchen for the necessary gadgets.
Third, and this is seriously the most important on the list, practically every recipe in the stupid magazine takes forever to make. For. Ever. When they say 45 minutes of prep time and 30 to cook, they be some lyin’ sons of bitches.
What was I talking about? Oh, I should probably cancel my subscription, because as you can see, I haven’t taken any of the magazines out of the plastic since January. I don’t even know why I have them.
Shit, y’all. I’m a hoarder.
And also? We all know I’m not going to look through any of the magazines for a recipe, don’t we? I’m going to make another freaking chocolate cake.