It’s the end of March already. What the frig? In the grand scheme of things – that being the pumpkin pie chart that is 2012 - we have eaten a slice that amounts to 25%, which makes us quite sated, happily plump and possibly on track for a bout of diabetes.
I’m glad you raised the matter of pumpkin pie, because it gives me a clear segue into my disdain for those people who think vegetables have an equal place in cakes alongside sugar, flour, butter and chocolate. Listen up people; vegetables do not belong in cakes, and their intrusion into the world of sweets has me very displeased. I believe these people are suffering from the widespread Pumpkin Pie Effect. Vegetables don't seem to have any boundaries anymore. They belong in roasts. And garden beds. Nowhere else, you hear?
My cake rules are actually quite simple and straightforward, and I don’t really care for any variation to the regulations. All cake I consume must contain chocolate and, ideally, be 50% icing. Putting chilli or beetroot in my chocolate cake is an insult to my taste buds and simply pisses me off. When it comes to cake, trying new things is for people who have not yet found their perfect match. I have found mine. If you like it then you shoulda put a cake ring on it.
Showing posts with label Cake. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cake. Show all posts
Friday, 30 March 2012
Monday, 12 March 2012
Happy birthday, dear Canberra
Today is Canberra's 99th birthday. At least I think she was born today. All I know is we get a public holiday today in grand celebration. Yep, Canberra ain't a spring chicken no more. No more staying out late boozing it up, Canberra, or wearing those short shorts that you claim are fashionable but we all know are just plain skanky. It's time to start rocking the blue rinse and popping those health pills.
While Canberra may be a dear old fogey in human years, she's just a toddler when it comes to ye old worldly townships. And she seems to be navigating the terrible twos just fine; her weight is average for her size, she can name many everyday objects, she carries her toys from place to place, and she can walk with adult support, which means she'll soon lose her baby fat (fingers crossed that it ends up being Charnwood).
If you happen to live in Minsk, or some other far-flung location of the world that has better broadband access than most of Australia's capital cities, then you will be quite fascinated to know that Canberra is this country's national capital. I know; extremely fascinating.
See, come to my blog and it's just like Wikileaks, except without the rape allegations, astronomical ego or interest in hacktivism. Oh boy, I could tell you some stories of Canberra's wild, vixen past that will make your hair practically stand on end, but I know that no-one in the whole world is vaguely interested. It's probably far less taxing to just take some Xanax if you're having trouble sleeping.
And nothing says '"happy birthday, you old duck" like a good old-fashioned public holiday. Next year will be the big cententary celebrations, and if I cared, I would probably know what the city has planned for it's own big shebang. Alas, I don't know because I don't really care. I wonder if Canberra will get a certificate of oldness from the Queen and the Governor General? I certificate of coldness would be just as suitable, Your Majesty.
Surely in the next year or so the local ACT Government will start reclaiming their property which they generously lease to Canberra home owners under 99-year contracts. If you did not know this then you should probably have read the terms and conditions when you signed up. The smaller the writing, the more important the writing.
And then we'll all be living the sustainable Australian dream, which will involve new eco-friendly residential estates consisting of giant upturned electric-powered wheelbarrows. And then, when you need to go anywhere - anywhere at all - you can simply flip your house and wheel your kiddies to school.
While Canberra may be a dear old fogey in human years, she's just a toddler when it comes to ye old worldly townships. And she seems to be navigating the terrible twos just fine; her weight is average for her size, she can name many everyday objects, she carries her toys from place to place, and she can walk with adult support, which means she'll soon lose her baby fat (fingers crossed that it ends up being Charnwood).
If you happen to live in Minsk, or some other far-flung location of the world that has better broadband access than most of Australia's capital cities, then you will be quite fascinated to know that Canberra is this country's national capital. I know; extremely fascinating.
See, come to my blog and it's just like Wikileaks, except without the rape allegations, astronomical ego or interest in hacktivism. Oh boy, I could tell you some stories of Canberra's wild, vixen past that will make your hair practically stand on end, but I know that no-one in the whole world is vaguely interested. It's probably far less taxing to just take some Xanax if you're having trouble sleeping.
And nothing says '"happy birthday, you old duck" like a good old-fashioned public holiday. Next year will be the big cententary celebrations, and if I cared, I would probably know what the city has planned for it's own big shebang. Alas, I don't know because I don't really care. I wonder if Canberra will get a certificate of oldness from the Queen and the Governor General? I certificate of coldness would be just as suitable, Your Majesty.
Surely in the next year or so the local ACT Government will start reclaiming their property which they generously lease to Canberra home owners under 99-year contracts. If you did not know this then you should probably have read the terms and conditions when you signed up. The smaller the writing, the more important the writing.
And then we'll all be living the sustainable Australian dream, which will involve new eco-friendly residential estates consisting of giant upturned electric-powered wheelbarrows. And then, when you need to go anywhere - anywhere at all - you can simply flip your house and wheel your kiddies to school.
Monday, 23 January 2012
Cake Neglect
There has been something very troubling going on at work that I believe needs to be brought to the attention of the authorities; perhaps the dudes who man the inbox for the Geneva Convention would be interested.
I first came across this atrocity last week, when I ventured into a dangerous warzone, often known as the Workplace Refridgerator. I was unarmed at the time, so I couldn't do much to help the victim of what I thought was clearly the victim of a terrible crime.
There are certain basic minimum standards that should apply to all situations involving cake. For example, no cake should be left behind, and yet this is what I found. LEFT BEHIND CAKE. I think it had been left there for a week. It was a horrible and traumatic thing for me to witness.
There is a specific Geneva Convention protocol that relates to the protection of victims of internal conflicts. I'm sure when they wrote it they were thinking of Cake Neglect following peace time morning teas. This is not rocket science, people. No cake gets left behind.
How does a whole section of people just forget about cake anyway? Cake is never far from my mind. I always know who has cake, how much cake they have, and I often pursue strategies to get some of it. Cake information is power in the public service.
Someone should do a thesis for their PhD on cake; oh wait, someone already has. Humanities academics doing what they do best; pompously pontificating about pointless drivel that is of little consequence to the rest of society. Sure, I harp on about pointless drivel on my blog all the time, but I don't have my hand in the taxpayer's wallet.
Sometimes I feel like I should apologise to the poor bastards who stumble across my blog and think it's something worth reading. This is one of those times. So, sorry, but the time you've spent here, reading about cake, will never be returned to you. It's gone forever.
I first came across this atrocity last week, when I ventured into a dangerous warzone, often known as the Workplace Refridgerator. I was unarmed at the time, so I couldn't do much to help the victim of what I thought was clearly the victim of a terrible crime.
There are certain basic minimum standards that should apply to all situations involving cake. For example, no cake should be left behind, and yet this is what I found. LEFT BEHIND CAKE. I think it had been left there for a week. It was a horrible and traumatic thing for me to witness.
There is a specific Geneva Convention protocol that relates to the protection of victims of internal conflicts. I'm sure when they wrote it they were thinking of Cake Neglect following peace time morning teas. This is not rocket science, people. No cake gets left behind.
How does a whole section of people just forget about cake anyway? Cake is never far from my mind. I always know who has cake, how much cake they have, and I often pursue strategies to get some of it. Cake information is power in the public service.
Someone should do a thesis for their PhD on cake; oh wait, someone already has. Humanities academics doing what they do best; pompously pontificating about pointless drivel that is of little consequence to the rest of society. Sure, I harp on about pointless drivel on my blog all the time, but I don't have my hand in the taxpayer's wallet.
Sometimes I feel like I should apologise to the poor bastards who stumble across my blog and think it's something worth reading. This is one of those times. So, sorry, but the time you've spent here, reading about cake, will never be returned to you. It's gone forever.
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