God, I love pound cake. I mean, just love it. And when your country has been taken over by a thin-skinned narcissist under the control of a Neo-Nazi with a taste for fascism, the only real solution is to bake something that calls for four sticks of butter. Frankly, I think anything named after the weight of butter in it just has to be good.
So, yesterday was pound cake because we’re detaining people at airports and banning refugees from countries that don’t do business with Herr Cheeto and when I stood on a street corner protesting with my ten-year-old, six different people gave us the finger, including one guy who waited to make sure my kid could see him. So, yeah, pound cake. Because pound cake.
I brought coffee and slices of pound cake to the carpenters who are now working on my garage but have been building my house since the good old days when we still had two years left of Michelle Obama’s arms to complain about. “But bring the mugs and plates back to me,” I reminded them. “If you don’t start returning my plates and mugs, I may have to cut you off baked goods.”
“You can’t afford to cut us off baked goods,” one of them retorted.
This is a good point. If they don’t eat it, I have to.
Today, I made zucchini bread. I freeze the zucchini in the summer in old peanut butter jars. I used to sweeten entirely with maple syrup, but the texture was off, so now I’m using half sugar, half maple syrup.
Some days, I bake more than once. It’s the only thing that seems to be relaxing me. See above re: narcissist and Neo-Nazi. I’m going to start standing on street corners with a sign that says, “Make America Cookies Again.” You only get one if you can restrain yourself from giving the finger to a ten-year-old.