I don't know about you, but I feel so weird these days, so out of sorts, so self-conscious and aware and filled with adrenaline and disgust and anger and -- should I go on? I miss blogging, too. I miss marking my days here and the casual way I'd throw out some thoughts and observations, a bit of poetry, a rant or two. I'm not tired of blogging or of blogs, either. I am preoccupied. I am so afraid of normalizing that POS running the country, the sycophants that support him, those that still maintain we must come together. Come together, my ass. I'm as overwhelmed as every other woman by the toppling of the patriarchy, too. When is the head dude, though, the Sexual Predator in Chief, going to get his due?
I'm baking a lot of cakes. I baked this one:
|Coconut Cake with Coconut Buttercream|
and I made five of these:
|Apple Toffee Crunch Cake with Cinnamon Buttercream|
I made about a million of these:
|yeast dough rolled in cinnamon sugar|
It came out like this:
|Cinnamon Pull-Apart Bread with Caramel Glaze|
Baking, unfortunately, does not alleviate the stress of the Repubs screwing us, over and over, now with their new tax plan which is really another version of their healthcare plan, which basically reinforces the direction the Disunited States of America is going which is a plutocracy. I want to say f*^k all of them, but I tire of cursing.
I also made the most killer cinnamon buttercream.
|Butter, sugar, egg whites, cinnamon|
Honestly, that stuff is nearly sexual. A silky sweet meringue that takes butter and transforms into something that melts on the tip of your tongue, just a trace.
I had my first paid gig at The Los Angeles Times on Saturday. Here's the link.