Aunt Grace’s Cake

I’m a woman of my word. I promised my “# 2”* son that this weekend I would bake him the cake that was the traditional birthday cake in our household when I was growing up. Even though his birthday was this past Tuesday, and I made him Carol’s Chocolate Cake last weekend.

It took longer than I expected to make it today. I’m not sure why – maybe I’m just operating in a slow motion fugue state?

Fugue State!

I can vouch for the fact that I am feeling the effects of eating  it. Wow, talk about fugue states. I. Am. There.

These two cakes are very different. The walnut torte (aka Aunt Grace’s Cake) has no flour. Only a dozen eggs, a pound of powdered sugar, a pound of walnuts and a few other things. Even the icing has eggs in it. Not to mention three large chocolate bars (melted) and another pound of powdered sugar.

Goodness. Just reciting the basic ingredients pushes me into that fugue state I mentioned above.

The chocolate cake has flour, sugar, cocoa, butter… and coffee.

Needless to say, indulging in both of these within the span of five or six days is a shock to my system! It’s a stretch to keep my eyes open.

Oh – and yet again, I picked Prairie Dog today. Unbelievable.

As much as I love making favorite dishes (or baked goods) (or whatever) for the people I love, and as much as I love the shamanic work I do, working on those things is not indulging in the “Lisa time” I vowed to engage in today. Nope.

Still Owe Myself Some Serious Alone Time

I still have not written down all the cool experiences of the past couple weeks. I must do that. It is crucial that I not let even one more day go by without writing those experiences down.

Tomorrow. I feel cautiously optimistic that tomorrow will be my day. (And if I choose Prairie Dog again…I’m not going to admit it.)  Of course, that’s not true.

By the decimation of the cake shown in the photo below, I clearly should not have bestowed cake cutting and distribution responsibilities to the honored recipient of said cake. The pieces were too gigantic. I cannot believe we ate half the cake. That borders on gross. No, it crossed the line.

Time for bed.

 

 

*I know you’re all wondering if “# 2” son means he’s my second favorite son (which, all things considered, wouldn’t be terrible) or if he’s simply the second of my three sons. Meaning the middle child. Which has its own special place in all mothers’ hearts. Sort of. If we remember.

(T-980)