My sister is a baking elf. If she were to open a bakery café, she would have a large and faithful clientel, drawn back by her particular magic. Like Chocolat, but no full-skirted cutesiness. More like a pyjama-bottom and running-top production. Her baking vocabulary includes "handfuls", "I found some" and "it's got everything". I never know if she has a recipe nearby or if she really knows what makes a cake the right consistency or which ingredients keep cookies together.
This particular beauty was her own birthday cake creation: chocolate and peanut butter baked to "moo-i-ness" underneath a crunchy, almond-slivered top. No eggs, cause no eggs were in the house. She ate the top (smart girl) and formed the bottom into a fudgy likeness of London (with hyena-ish ears). We all sat around the kitchen table, followed her lead and left the forks in the drawer. Death by chocolate.
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