Once upon a time we were going to have dinner with the neighbors. I was in charge of bringing the dessert, and I knew just the perfect little number. I had swiped the recipe from one of my mother-in-law's magazines not too long ago, and had just been dying to make it.
Emphasis on dying.
I am not big on having reasons to do things. Or bake things. If I want a cookie for breakfast, well, I have one. Same goes with any type of food at any time. Ask Evan. He just loves it.
But this cake.
It felt like it needed a special occasion. So I gathered all the ingredients, bought some cream, checked the level of my deep dark cocoa powder (just enough!) and waited for Sunday to come. Long (and actually rather boring) story short, the dinner plans were canceled. And because I am not the type of girl who lets a pint of heavy cream go to waste, I made the cake anyway. It was just the way I was brought up.
And the cake? Oh my. Picture: dark chocolate truffle meets the best cake you've ever had. And then times that by 867 and it ends up equaling this exact cake. Seriously.
But be warned: It is very addicting. Evan was out doing some manly-man errands and I was left all alone. With the cake. Every time I would pass the kitchen, I would sliver off a tiny bite. It was just the way I was raised.
Well, I noticed that my tiny slivers were equaling a rather large portion. And so I did the most responsible thing I could think of. I texted Evan.
Me: When are you going to be home? I can't stop eating cake.
His response: I'm on my way. Save some cake for me, fatty! (we'll talk about my personal image issues later)
And with a mouth full of cake, I replied back: I'm not a fatty! You da fatty!
And then he came home. And he saw the truth. Almost gone.
It's that good.
