My hubby is trying to kill me.
It's an ingenious plan, really. Under the guise of baking and decorating our friend's wedding cake (due this Friday!), he is surrounding me with mountains and mountains of cake discards.
This is completely unfair.
I cannot walk through my kitchen without encountering piles of delicious, moist pudding cake on every counter. My freezer is full of bags of cake to be defrosted and made into chocolate-dipped cake balls at the earliest possible, err, I mean at Christmas - yes, that's it - Christmas. (Of course I might have to do a few quality checks before then. Wouldn't want to serve inferior cake balls.)
You see, to make the perfectly flat surface of the four-tiered wedding cake our friend ordered, my hubby has to make multiple layers for each level and then slice 1 inch off the top of every layer. 46 cake mixes makes an awful lot of sliced off cake.
He has no use for this sliced off cake. The Swedish half of me cringes at the thought of throwing away perfectly good cake. Not because it's cake but because we just don't throw out anything that might be useful.
This cake is not useful to anyone except the Devil who is using it as a tool to expand my hips at an epidemic rate.
I need help. Serious reinforcements. I've shoved platters of cake at anyone who stops by my house. Friends. The mail man. A seriously annoying door-to-door salesman. I still have cake on my counters. Cake filling up my freezer. Cake straining the seams of my jeans.
I finally succumbed to the invasion today and threw away an entire Kroger sack full of delicious cake. (I'm sorry, Mom. I've failed to live up to my Swedish ancestors who could have probably made a casserole, a pillow, and some mulch from everything I threw away) I had to. Where else could I possibly put it? I feel like those neighbors you know who grow way too many tomatoes and zucchini and stalk you with bags full of veggies every time you come home.
This is waaaaaay better than veggies.
Want some cake? Call me. I've got a bag full with your name on it.