Wednesday, November 09, 2005
A rose is not a rose if you smush it with your boob
Last night was Lesson 2 of the cake class. I made icing all afternoon, until the kitchen was a veritable sea of white fluffy shit. My poor Kitchen Aid stand mix was so pathetically grateful at being used, I swear it was whimpering in delight. I made a pathetic little layer cake, iced it, and then took off for class.
We learned to make stars (the staple of those goofy Wilton character cakes), write a little bit, and make dots...whoo, hoo. (And, I sucked at all of that.) Then, E, our instructor, decided to have us learn the vaunted Wilton Rose in one evening. I can see that I have a real career in making ornamental cabbages to decorate a cake. I think E was getting really frustrated at me, because I just couldn't "get it."
I finally prevail and get three passable/recognizable roses on my cake. And then, I kill them by leaning over the table to get a sheet of paper that E handed me, and my ginormous boobage flattened the roses...I swear, I just can't win.
I remember all through high school praying to the Breast Fairy to bring me some cleavage. The summer after high school, I go from a B to a D. Very popular, I was. Very popular. Then, there were other parts of my body that started catching up with the boobage, but we won't go in to that now. Let's just say that the boobs are still here, along with the rest of my body. Sometimes a blessing, sometimes a curse.
Maybe, I should just put Wilton roses on my boobs and let it go at that.