When an amazing baked good must be had, there's only one recourse: an appeal to the patron saint of the Bloggernacle: cjane.
It's not the first time an appeal was made; I had to deliver cookies to Our Lady of Southwest Provo, Amelie, Protector Of Us All, at least a dozen times.
There were even times when more drastic measures were required, like tarts. Heaven forgive us our earthly trespasses!
Sometimes I'd even leave caramel sauce at a neighbor's house where it would be stolen and eaten directly out of the jar with the spoon without my knowledge. But that's how saints are: a little sneaky if you ask me.
And then there were the mini doughnuts that were also required in her presence. Don't tell the other saints but we may have committed gluttony as we rocked the night away listening to Phread sing "Don't Fear the Reaper."
I have a hunch that her coconut baby is way more delicious than any purgatory-rescued mexican chocolate.
So it was that a long time ago I, Azucar-of-the-Pines, as named by cjane, confessed to the patron saint of the bloggernacle, my secret age. You know, the age you think of yourself as, no matter what age your bossy birth certificate says. Ever since I was small I knew I was really 32. I fingered my bead necklace and said with a thousand sighs, "32. Always have been, always will be." And now our cjane is 32 and we're the same age for just a little while longer.
Probably just long enough to make some more cookies.
Happy birthday sweet cjane, maybe those wings aren't such a joke after all.
(Yes, they are.)
More tributes to cjane at b., at Sue's, at Kalli's, at CW's, and at Phread's. And especially at LaYen's, who has the whole legend for your perusal.