C-A-K-E

C-A-K-E

My husband is an awesome baker, kind of pro-am. But I was feeling pretty “meh” about a birthday cake for my upcoming day o’ birth. I could get behind the candles and the wishing and a piece of cake, but then you just have this sad, half-eaten thing around the house for the next week and a half slowly drying out and/or growing mold until someone finally throws it away.

Then I saw THIS.

I squealed.

It was undignified.

BUT OMG IT’S A GIANT SNOWBALL CAKE SOMEBODY HOLD ME. I haven’t had a Snowball since I was 10. My grandmother would buy them for me. No one else would. I don’t know why, but it was probably related to my mother’s no-carnival-rides-rule somehow. Most things were. (Mom never trusted carnies.)

So it turns out, it’s the dinner I don’t care about on my birthday. I just want martinis and cake. SNOWBALL CAKE. YES.

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