Life lessons and delicious baked goods.

You get a blog post you lucky buggers!

These days that’s a rare enough occurrence for me to call you lucky and also reference sodomy.
Normally it’d be a rarity because, as was evident from my last post, I was distracted by something other than writing. This time however it’s because I’m in the throes of getting our house ready for sale.
Long story for another time.

But because I’m getting our house ready for sale that means I have spent the entire day doing that one blessed activity that’s always guaranteed to make my mind wander much in the same way that one’s mind goes to a happy place when you’re getting a barbed catheter inserted part way through having your fingernails pulled out in the depths of a Siberian gulag.

Yep, I was gardening all day.
I think I once stated a preference of fistually violating a lion to performing garden maintenance but I may have been talking about watching My Kitchen Rules at the time. Both activities really contain ‘Place testicles in blender and hit puree’ levels of fun for me though.

So in the middle of cutting grass, swearing at grass, cutting trees, swearing at trees, pulling weeds, swearing at weeds, punching weeds, punching trees, screaming at dandelions and generally exploding puss from 70% of my facial orifices due to an all-round allergy to the outside world; I got to thinking of things that weren’t what was happening to me right this second.
Things that would take the pain and rage away.
Things like my darling Wifs baking.

I tell people all the time that the Wif is a mad baker. They usually ask ‘Oh she’s really good is she?’ and I’ll generally reply by saying that she’s not actually very good she just tends to put things like boxes of crayons, small dioramas of the birth of Simba from The Lion King or half eaten ferrets into her pastries. As you’d guess this usually results in people backing away slowly and in most cases ceasing their chewing and looking rather fearful being that they already had a mouth full of her cake.

But I actually meant mad as in mad-good. All hyphenated and everything.

Honestly, the wizardry she pulls off with our bullshit excuse for an oven would make Dumbledore best work look like that detachable thumb trick you use on your stoner friends to distract them while your other sober mate steals all their wallets.

She makes cheesecakes, bagels, cronuts (donut/croissant hybrid), crumbles, pies, piñata cake (a cake filled with lollies and shit when you cut into it), a Minions cake one time for my birthday, something we called ‘Sex cake’ which was a biscuit base with a salted peanut caramel layer then a cheesecake layer then some chocolate ganache then what I can only imagine was crack cocaine on top because I couldn’t get enough of that shit.
But her speciality is Cake-pops.

Not the shitty ones you’ve had before, really friggin good ones. Filled with super dense mud cake blitzed with butter cream icing and coated with tempered chocolate so they crack when you bite them like a big m&m.

They are, THE shit.

She doesn’t bake as much anymore now that we’re no longer doing the ‘Full time working couple with no kids and ass tons of disposable income’ thing but when we were she was experimenting and making new stuff each week.

And so, to prevent both of us from developing type 2 and gaining the physiques of your average wall-mart lurking American, we alternated taking the baked blessings from Valhalla to our workplaces.

She became infamous for her cooking at my workplace to the point that when she attended my Christmas party she was known by the entire store as ‘The lady that makes all those amazing cakes.’
Obviously at her workplace she was known by her actual name but that’s really not even close to being relevant to the story.
All these cakes and shit weren’t cheap to make when it came to experimenting too. Using just egg yolks and entire blocks of chocolate gets pretty up there in the price factor and we were just giving it away cause, well fuck it, we could afford to. Cake-pops were especially expensive but people loved them and she was actually asked to make them for a few birthday parties and stuff after gaining a little notoriety so it wasn’t all bad.

Anyway, you’re starting to doze off so let me get to the point.

A workmate and friend of the Wifs suffered a terrible tragedy in her life at one point. It’s not my story to tell but rest assured it was the kind of shit 60 minutes would cover not Today Tonight.
Her entire workplace rallied behind the woman and held a charity fund raiser for her and everyone did their part to help get her through as money was a bit of a factor in the whole ordeal.

That being the case, I told the Wif to go ahead and make a big batch of her Cake-pops and I would take them to MY work, where we have given them these things dozens of times before for free, and ask for a small donation in exchange for the pops.
She thought it was a great idea and I honestly believed in the goodness of my co-workers.

Because back then I was a fucking idiot.

I wrote a group email to the entire store, explained the cause that their donation was going towards, asked for anything from five cents to five dollars, anything at all was welcome.
By the end of the day I had exactly zero dollars and an entire batch of Pops.
Nobody even met my fucking eye that day. The people that actually asked me on a daily basis if my Wif had made anything recently didn’t even say a peep.
At the end of the day I was explaining to two workmates how shitty it was that all these people who jump at handouts scatter when you ask for something back. Neither of them knew what I was talking about because they didn’t have time to read their emails for the day.
I explained the situation and immediately after, both offered me money. Decent amounts.
I told them not to be silly but they insisted.
One of them, doesn’t eat the baked goods I bring in because he doesn’t like sweets. The other doesn’t eat them because he has fucking type 1!

I offered them the Cake pops in exchange for their money and they took some for their spouses and told me to give the rest to the Wif for her workplace.

I haven’t taken cakes in since.

The moral of the story here kids is, those that are first in line for a handout, will always be the first on the horizon when you need someone close by.

And the moral for ME in all this is that there is actually a few good people left in the world.

And that I miss my Wifs baking.

And I hate gardening.

– Jacob

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