So when my hubby asked me to make some things for the open house at the offices next week, I was game. Everything that doesn't look perfect will still taste good unless I burn it to cinders, and the guys will scarf 'em up. Plus I was roped into making a few dozen cupcakes for Little Guy's choir party this week.
I figured I could get my baking skills warmed up on those.
I'm one of those people who have to plan ahead, so I made sure I had a few boxes of cake mix and those tub thingys of frosting in the pantry. I bought them a couple of months ago, and like Velveeta, the expiration date is decades away. Not really. But sort of. Eggs? Check. Oil? Check.
Hubby was going to be away all day Sunday for the Bronco game, so I figured Sunday would be cupcake day.
Little Guy got out the big bowl and we set to work. 49 cupcakes baked, cooled and ready to frost. He got a tub of chocolate frosting off the lazy susan and opened it up.
He showed me. The foil that keeps everything nice and fresh was peeled back under the lid. About a third of the frosting had been scooped out of the tub.
I set it on the counter and got out another tub. I had a fairly good idea (I'll bet YOU do too) who the culprit was, but decided to deal with him later.
The next tub was vanilla cream cheese frosting. The foil was loose and I lifted it up. A couple of spoonfuls were missing.
Now I was getting REALLY pissed off. I took the third and last tub off the lazy susan. And yes, the foil was loose. There were actually FINGER MARKS in there from where the frosting had been scooped out.
My entire stash of frosting was ruined.
I hollered for the Big Kid to get his butt in the kitchen.
I wrote about Big Kid's late night forays into the pantry last spring.
Around that time, Big Kid scarfed up a pound of raisins I bought for a recipe in the dead of night. He had a massive panic attack when the undigested whole ones rehydrated and came out all gray and puffy in his poo the next day, because he thought a parasite or an alien was laying eggs in his digestive tract.
He finally said something after his third turd attack (they don't call it colon blow for nothing!) and I had to sift through his doody to get to the bottom of it. Pun not intended. ("No I am NOT GOING TO CALL THE X-FILES!! Aliens didn't lay eggs in your intestines! THERE AREN'T ANY X-FILES IN REAL LIFE, YOU DOOF!")
I showed him the frosting. Did you do this?
"Oh that. Yeah. But that was weeks ago." Like it doesn't count if I don't catch it in say---a week.
WTF were you thinking?
"I was hungry."
Why didn't you put it in the fridge after you opened it?
"Because then you'd know and you'd yell at me."
Why didn't you eat a whole one instead of opening a new one?
"It was different days. The opened ones were probably yucky. I might get sick."
On the third day of humbug, Santa left for me:
3 opened tubs of frosting,
2 dead pens,
and a lump of coal for under my tree