I brought a cake to the office this week. (I don’t usually work in an office, as most of you know, but out of our spare room. But sometimes I get to hang out in a cubicle outside the studio when I’m taking over traffic at CBC, and feel very Mary Tyler Moore-ish.) I happened to be subbing in on David‘s birthday, and so I baked a cake. Peanut butter, because he loves it and so do I. I’ve rarely met a person who doesn’t practically jump up and down with glee at the sight of a peanut butter cake, especially when the layers are sandwiched with chocolate ganache and the whole thing is topped with creamy peanut butter frosting, made with cream cheese. Not that I’ve ever actually made a peanut butter cake, that I can remember, but that was the unanimous reaction I got to this one.
Because I didn’t plan ahead and made ganache just a few hours before I had to be at work, it wasn’t set enough. So I had to tote all the elements of the cake with me and assemble it at the little strip of countertop by the microwaves that could be loosely described as a kitchen. But then again not really.
(I must apologize here for the florescent lights, which make food look about as appetizing as they make me look.)
A friend was in the studio that day as well, and told me that peanut butter cake was a very east coast thing, and it made her feel like she was back home, which was a very nice thing to know.
I burnt their bottoms – or one and a half of them – partly because I left them in the oven too long, partly because my oven is old and overworked and uneven. 20 minutes should about do it.