Icing and Tires

A little over a week ago, Shooting Star sent me an e-mail, with a restaurant review. The highlight? A homemade strawberry cake, complete with homemade, secret recipe strawberry icing, which promised to be “Barbie pink.”

I was all over that like... a fat kid on cake?

So, exerting every ounce of self restraint I had, I agreed to meet up with her on Friday, as a little end-of-the-week celebration. The week crawled by, and finally, FINALLY Friday came. And then we drove to the middle of nowhere, south Denver, turned a corner, and there on a hill, like a beacon of all that is good (and pinkly frosted!) in this world, sat this restaurant.

We went in, and joined the dozen or so other customers in the large, open restaurant with family farm-style décor. We were the only patrons under the age of 72. We didn't know if this is due to the fact that it was close to retirement home dinnertime (3:30 p.m.) or if it was just due to the fact that we were at a random home-style restaurant in the middle of nowhere in the middle of a weekday. So we ignored all the gray hair, and ordered our slices of strawberry cake immediately, and then, oh heck, why not, a large glass of wine, too, and waited for the goodness to arrive.

I could see the anticipation on Shooting Star's face. It mirrored my own. This was a promise of heaven. And we had built it up, sending e-mails all week, there was no way it was going to like up to our expectations. But, hey, at least there was wine, right?

But. The cake did not disappoint. It arrived, with pink frosting oozing (literally) down the sides. (I could have picked a better verb, there, but that IS what it was doing.) We bit in to the moist goodness of the strawberry cake, and oh lord. The sugar rush began with the first bite. And the frosting. Oh! The frosting. It had little chunks of real strawberries in it. Dear God, I never wanted it to stop. (Except, I kind of did, when my heart started doing funny palpitation-thing-ies from all the sugar.) But it was oh so worth it.

We went home, syrupy sweet frosting coursing through our veins, vowing to gnaw on celery sticks, or something, for the rest of the weekend.

The rest of the weekend was a blur. We passed up going to Frozen Dead Guy Days and discovering our inner goths to hang out with D, who was in town, visiting. (And it was only for D. Otherwise, I was so investing in black lip liner and large safety pins for my ratty sweater had she not been visiting. I even sent The Funasaurus to the store for black nailpolish. How awesome is he?)

Yesterday The Funasaurus' car got a flat tire in our neighborhood, so he jogged home, and grabbed the keys to my car, all, “Lucky you, working from home!” and with a kiss, was off again, and I was car-less. Fortunately, it was 70 degrees out, so I basked in the sunshine reading my Glamour (it IS tough working from home) and waited for AAA at the end of the block.

I finished my Glamour at the tire store, and then had some free time to sit and wonder when Shooting Star will let me convince her to go back for more cake. Wonder what she's up to, tonight?