Tag Archives: Cake

OMG, It’s Monday! Prayer: Too Much Cake and Eating It, Too

OMG, It’s Monday! Prayer: O Lord, after all the shredding, mixing and cleanup, my chocolate chip zucchini cake flopped. Too concave to give to new neighbors. Oh, well. Thank You, OMG, that this failure, unlike some, presents an opportunity to laugh! (And with a thick layer of salted caramel icing, to eat it all …) 

Popcorn and Cake for Supper

Image by Alexa from Pixabay.

I’d thawed meat for supper and pondered side dish possibilities. Salad. If I felt ambitious (and dangerous), fried potatoes.

I didn’t feel ambitious. I didn’t want to cook. Period.

The past 48 years, I’ve faced cooking 17,500+ evening meals. Lord knows, I’ve wanted to skip dinner preparation. But like women past and present, I champion good nutrition. Eating out blows the budget. I also want to set a good example.

If women were honest, though, they ultimately cook because they don’t want their kids to give kindergarten teachers the scoop about questionable meals … or see pictures they drew of a Cheerios-and-Cheetos® supper on display at Parents’ Night.

However, Hubby and I, empty nesters, no longer tremble before kindergarten teachers. We don’t have to be good examples. We put our feet on the furniture. We sometimes skip vegetables.

After this tough week, survival deserves an escape.

Image by Nuno Lopes from Pixabay.

Hubby doesn’t know we’re leaving. He figures it out, though, when I hand him a suitcase.

“We’re going to Paris.”

“I know it’s been rough,” he says, “but how about a movie, instead?”

Any outing, anywhere — short of North Korea — works for me.

Image by Lilly Cantabile from Pixabay.

“Supper.” I offer him cake smothered in ice cream. “I ate the other half.”

“I’ll eat quick—”

“Eat it on the road.” I offer to drive.

Hubby’s mother would never have permitted this. Throw a bowl of cholesterol at a husband and drive him to an expensive movie? She’d rather have driven a getaway car to a bank robbery.

But Hubby gets me. Taking Highway 22 through Gas City doesn’t equal jetting to Paris, but it’s enough.

Image by Kerstin Riemer from Pixabay.

Fellow adventurers huddle in the nearly empty theater. Everyday moviegoers? Maybe they’re spies, exchanging secret information while animated nachos and Goobers® high-kick on the screen.

We didn’t go to Paris, so I have to create excitement, right?

As the movie begins, I put my feet on the rail and laugh out loud at funny parts. We devour exorbitant butter-marinated popcorn and drink buckets of Coke®.

Image by John Hain from Pixabay.

We cheer crazies who do life different.

Though movie characters never take five restroom breaks during their rowdy scenes. Nor do they lie awake with heartburn afterward, feeling fat and stuffed as their pillows.

But do they have more fun than we did on this cake-and-popcorn-for-supper night?

Never.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What’s your escape plan after a tough week?

Classic Post: Birthday Cake vs. Birthday Pie

Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay.

This post first appeared on February 28, 2018.

Birthday cakes boast a long, illustrious history. According to the Huffington Post, Greeks and Romans commemorated births of gods and men with candlelit cakes. As wine flowed at birthday feasts, the honoree occasionally set his toga on fire.

Birthday cake traditions still are regarded as sacred. Abstainers offend the family/office/church Cake Queen. (Watch your back, or she may stuff you into her oven.)

So, for survival reasons, I eat birthday cake. Thankfully, lighted candles suck out all calories.

Image by Nisha Gill from Pixabay.

On my upcoming birthday, however, I will indulge in raspberry pie. À la mode? Of course, à la mode. Do you think I’m an idiot?

My niece, Lauren Galan, makes — and photographs — delicious pies.

Don’t answer that. You, either, Hubby.

Obviously, this crucial subject demands discussion. Though my sweet tooth welcomes sugar, regardless of origin or creed, I have always liked pie best, especially my mother’s — fruit-plump, with ambrosial juices bubbling through golden, flaky crusts.

As a child, I loved reading about pie. Almanzo Wilder, in Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Farmer Boy, reverently scanned hundreds at a county fair: “When he began to eat pie, he wished he had eaten nothing else.”

Mom would have made me birthday pies, if I’d dared requested them. But tradition ruled. I blew candles out on cakes.

Pie Heaven does exist on this earth. My brother practiced optometry where Amish patients gifted him with luscious offerings. Amazingly, he once shared his birthday shoofly pie with me … which made me suspicious. Had he stuck bananas up my Ford’s tailpipe? Informed the IRS I never had the three children I claimed? Volunteered me for a ten-year mission in the Sahara? I still wonder. …

Sometimes, being a pie lover can be dangerous — but yummy!

Some opponents caution that deviating from the cake custom opens the door to chaos. Only at one’s wedding does one deal with cake-in-the-face. But birthday pie increases pie-in-the-face risks exponentially.

And their point is?

The lemon cream pie that once smeared my visage caused no dire effects. Fellow conference-goers, however, fussed about my suit and hair as if I’d suffered a blast of radiation.

When globs of luscious pie are within licking distance, who cares about my hair? Some people should get their priorities straight.

Did you hear that, Almanzo? I know you’d bravely take a pie in the face. And choose birthday pie, too.

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Which would you choose, birthday pie or cake? Which kind?

OMG, It’s Monday! Prayer: No-Temptation Birthday Cake

OMG, It’s Monday! Prayer: No-Temptation Birthday Cake. O Lord, thank You that this pineapple upside-down cake turned out well for my husband’s birthday. And OMG, thank You that though it is his favorite, I can walk away from this cake without a pang.

But if it were chocolate. …

Graduation Then and Now

Image by Gerhard C. from Pixabay.

High school graduation celebrations have changed since my husband — then boyfriend — and I graduated in 1971. Boy, we painted the town red.

We went to the Dairy Queen.

Today a 50-cent sundae no longer cuts it. Graduation celebrations now resemble a Times Square New Year’s bash or a Walmart’s grand opening.

Image by F. Muhammad from Pixabay.

Parents suffer from open house syndrome, in which they attempt to recreate their worlds before anyone discovers they’ve been living in squalor. Forget painting the living room. Talented home renovators add new wings, while home improvement klutzes knock out one too many walls. To offset costs, creative parents charge admission to open houses, with extra fees for use of bathrooms and chairs. Some install magnets in sofas to collect loose change.

Image by Vicki Nunn from Pixabay.

Mothers experience acute cleaning disorder. Even the gentlest women blow away dust bunnies. Advanced cases not only clean under their own appliances, they sneak next door to scrub under neighbors’ refrigerators. While most recover, chronic sufferers cannot cope with normalcy. When they run out of children to graduate, they recruit teens off the street.

Those with severe graduation syndrome also share all 50 poses of their children’s senior pictures with waiters, flagmen and ATMs.

Other aspects of graduation have changed. Cards nowadays are honest: “Congratulations! We never thought you’d make it!” and the ever-popular “Happy Graduation. Here’s money. Please leave our state.”

Although graduation gifts have evolved from pen sets in 1971 to Porsches in 2022, books remain a staple — a mystery to students, as they have waited 13 years to escape books. Still, they open Great-aunt Clarabelle’s rectangular gift, hoping it contains gold bars rather than devotionals like God Is Watching You at College.

Image by Kris White from Pixabay.

Hubby and I would never hurt friends’ feelings, so we attend open houses and force ourselves to eat piles of meatballs and little hot dogs. To honor graduates, we sample each and every cake, finishing with a sentimental stop at the Dairy Queen.

With full stomachs, Hubby and I return to a house full of junk. We’re afraid to open closet doors. The yard resembles a pasture.

We jump back into the car and cruise downtown. There’s gotta be a kid there who needs an open house.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: How are graduations celebrated in your area?