No, I never did that. It was too important for me to show how goddamned MUCH I can absorb, then promptly forget. Especially if money was exchanged.

The problem is, I have a few sacred spaces that, once entered, must be reconsecrated with holy water & incense & sea salt & sacrifices of rare lamb or, better yet, raw fish wrapped in vinegar rice & seaweed paper. Then child services must be called.

Because I don’t like to talk about these sacred spaces, and I don’t sign post them, adventurous types just kinda trample all over them. The little holy man inside goes ballistic, screaming at the trespasser even though nobody told the trespasser not to go there. It wasn’t even terribly well sign posted. Well, maybe if you know what to look for.

No harm meant, the little man, who is bald & in a robe & called Brother Tremendous, sighs & says, “Ok, trespasser. Please go in peace. Make sure not to come back.” He then goes through the arduous process of resetting up all the things. He looks, I just realized, like Charlie Brown.

Now, if the trespasser is a Lucy, they’ll come back. Brother Tremendous then fairly loses his mind, and paramedics are called. It’s a mess. I’m not sure what kind of horrible sadist would want to do that to a tiny bald monk.

Point being, I know exactly what I don’t like & refuse to talk about, even if you don’t, but once I tell you “No, we don’t go here. Brother Tremendous will have an apoplectic fit,” the idea is to find something else to discuss.

Here are things I do like:

I will spend hours stroking a cat. Every non-ass surface of a cat is interesting, as I know the specific anatomy underneath their warm fur having cut a few up in the name of science. Their little bones & fluttery little motor organs are of profound interest to me, & I prefer them all covered in warm, lively skin & fur.

All conversation anywhere in the world defers immediately to the most helpless creature in the room. If a child genuinely needs help, or there is a plaintive mew, whimper, or whinny, you could be the Pope President God Emperor of All Things & I’d ignore you completely & ask whatever is sad what’s wrong. THE MOST HELPLESS CREATURE IN THE ROOM IS THE MOST IMPORTANT.

Music, without fail, supersedes all talk. I don’t care if you know I’ve heard the song a bazillion times. Music is more important than talking. So is silence, but I get that normals need to talk sometimes. Also? Your music probably sucks.

Empathy is better than skill. Consider the serial murderer. “I’m awfully good at slicing people up.” Why yes, yes you are. But I don’t want to be sliced on, & if you had even a sliver of empathy, you’d stop. Jerk.

This applies to the folk who are slightly less evil than serial killers, like people who discuss politics on TV. “In my studied opinion, things are this!” One day, if you stop to consider how normal people feel, you might be able to sell what they’re not buying. Or, just, also? Who cares? What is the simplest rule of humanity? People want to be free to live, not told what to do for their own good.

There is nothing more compelling in the world than a man who makes me feel safe. I obey his orders without question. The second I feel unsafe, I am thinking of ways to sabotage his entire operation. I may have put vaseline on all the doorknobs.

Men who fixate on parts/acts are idiots. There’s a whole world of AMAZING STUFF going on right up here, dumb ass. *points to eyes* The key to all this *sweeps hand across body* is all up in here *taps rapidly on the side of my head* and skipping it is like deciding to buy something for yourself rather than receive a gift. In which case, you can go do some other things by yourself.

I LOVE reading & writing under an electric blanket turned up to 11 with a down comforter on top. So do the cats.

When in doubt, empathy empathy empathy. Living in yourself ain’t near so enlightening as living in someone else. I have to remind myself of that one quite a bit some days.

Above all else, hot showers.

Well, actually, in Burbank, it’s tunnel, then stairs. And there’s no Shelob, or you’d hear that I’d have been checked into a mental hospital. There are posters of Swedish meatballs, though. And lingonberry juice. Nearly as frightening.

I was having a lovely lunch with Wendy, the organizer of Chuckfest, who is tireless in her promotion of Chuck, Operation Smile, & Zac Levi’s work in general. This was a nice change from how my day initially started, which was an epic clusterfuck involving me not working at either of my jobs due to scheduling confusion. It also improved when I realized I’d lost 3 trouser sizes. But I digress.

So I figure “Hey! I’m full of carnitas. I have $15. I’m in Burbank. I’ll just pop over to Ikea & buy that $15 duvet set I saw in the catalogue. That’s all I need.”

These are the famous last words of anyone who enters an Ikea or Target or Costco.

Also, if you know me, you know that I frequently get lost. I can even have been somewhere twice & still get lost getting there a 3rd time. I do not have this problem in giving directions, just taking them. In this way, & in my inability to remember birthdays or acknowledge passive aggressive behavior, I am very much like a guy.

So I realize I’m nowhere near anything that could be an Ikea, as there are school children littered about & also a mountain, like, right where there ought to be more road. I pull over to reroute myself via Google maps (which, like cake, is a lie), & my phone promptly dies.

“Well,” I think to myself, “I’m a smart girl. I’ll just turn around & go back the way I came & surely Ikea will appear.”

Well, it didn’t. So I kind of drove in a circle until I saw a thing that looked like a bunch of stores or something. I pulled into what I thought was Burbank Blvd but was actually a parking garage. I figured “What the hell? I’m sick of driving. Here is where I’ll park.” So I drive to the back of it & spy the merest glimpse of royal-blue-bordering-on-navy. This is the universal Ikea signal.

I park, get out of the car, & seek a pedestrian exit. In doing so, I come across a tunnel. Above this tunnel says “This path was made by the dead, & the dead keep it.” No, it said “Welcome to Ikea.” WTF? So I entered the tunnel, & immediately thought of Faramir in the sewers of Osgiliath (not in the book) slamming Gollum against the wall & demanding “Where are you leading them?!” I asked this of a poster for lingonberry juice. “WHERE ARE YOU TAKING ME?!” but I frightened a small child.

Up up up the stairs I went, and lo, Ikea! “See? We’ve led you out!” says Smeagol in my head, because at this point I’ve gone insane. I head into Ikea, am greeted by a friendly, suspiciously Swedish-looking elderly American, & find the loo. Swedish pop music was playing, & I was flanked by two girls who obviously knew each other, & were chatting. Like men, I have no idea why anyone would want to talk with their trousers down.

I continued to be flanked by these two insipid waifs while washing my hands. Apparently no segment of their fascinating dissection of a friend’s job hunt could go unrecounted, even while one was blocking the paper towels and texting at the same time. I did in fact end up elbowing her in the head as she barely moved when I approached, & she was short, so I didn’t even have to try on purpose. That’s efficiency of motion.

After nearly trampling a tiny Latino family because Texty McStandaround decided suddenly to move & push me, I finally left the loo & walked past what might be the most terrifying chasm known to man: the “Family Station”. It looks like a bathroom, but it has a man figure, a woman figure, & a baby figure in it. I did not look in. I imagine in happier days, a couple might duck in there to make a family, but the young guy peering out of it wildly appeared to be trying to escape one. The unceasing wailing coming from that room of horrors made me scoot past extra rapidly, grab a germ wipe, & slick down one of those bizarre, useless half-carts they have.

I then fell into line with the uniformly diverse crowd that accompanies every visit to Ikea. The chubby Asian girl in sparkle nail polish, garish feather earring, & sky blue tights, whom her mother clearly loathes for bringing shame to the family. The several pairs of Latino girls pointing & saying “Mira!” at everything. The Latino family silently accumulating items in their cart at the speed of sound. The stern faced, New-York-beautiful caucasian woman with long, fringeless hair pulled back in a tight, nondescript brown bun, her denim jacket & scarf concealing a dun coloured Coldwater Creek dress. Her mouth is small, tight, & lined. The cheerful Asian man & his small daughter playing with finger puppets & other soft toys near a young childless couple in Yo La Tengo t-shirts, doing the exact same thing. The haggard middle aged woman with frizzy orange hair & black roots or the 30-something unmarried dude, both in Ikea yellow, both sort of hoping not to be seen, both seeming to endure their own quiet hells with the dignity of lone squirrels (which I say with all respect, having a fondness for squirrels).

And then there’s me & plaid-shirt-glasses-squeaky-cart dude.

He’s always at Ikea, too. He usually has a manicured beard that’s meant to look natural, & he’s got Ikea directions & a band flyer rolled up in his back scruffy jeans pocket, & he follows me around but never talks to me. If I smile at him, he stares directly at me, his face goes blank, and he looks around like he thinks I mean someone else. Then I get bored & go back to realizing I’m not following the arrows & I’m pissing off the 50-something year old women who won’t shut up about stylish storage, trying to go the correct way.

I find the $14.99 duvet cover set. It’s not as pretty up close, but it’s $15. For a Queen. That’s great, right?! So I go look at the $39.99 one I initially bookmarked in my Ikea app. I look at it a lot. I finger the material. I go back to the $15 one. It’s not much worse than the $40 one, but then, the $40 one is black toile on white, which is so like the rest of my decor, & also it’s only $40. It’s not like I’m at Pottery Barn. I can actually afford that. So I balance the $40 one in my weird little non-cart, & put the $15 one back.

I then realize that my bedside table lamps are green, & this won’t match. I look at lamps. The ones I bookmarked are $15 a pop, & in person, don’t look so great. I oddly fall in love w/ these weird Pan Am looking plastic fantastic things, $8 a pop, called, no shit, Lampa. Somehow I think Swedish is like Spanish, where adding an A to the end of a word doesn’t make it Swedish, how adding an O to the end of a word doesn’t make it Spanish. But I add two Lampa to my uncart. One Lampa promptly falls out, but it’s plastic, so it’s fine.

I briefly scan the As Is room, which is in as much disarray as Balin’s Tomb and, fearing cave trolls & goblins, I back away quickly. I then approach the self check out. I note that plaid-glasses-beard is there, now bereft of his squeaky cart, & he is having issues scanning. I soon learn why. It’s not like Ralph’s. You have to pick up a scanning gun, not run your merchandise over a scanner like it seems by the set up.

I became aware of a very impatient, profoundly idiotic couple waiting for me, which is hilarious as I took maybe two minutes to do the whole thing. Apparently I was supposed to scan & bag my items in three nanoseconds, as her myriad sighs & his comments about my sunglasses (which by now had slipped part way down my head in a less than headbandesque manner) indicated. Though in retrospect I don’t think he said anything; sometimes I can hear thoughts. I hate that, by the way. Don’t worry; I can only hear the surface thoughts of petty or needy minds. They are very loud. It’s the empathy you wanna watch out for. Sometimes I feel your feelings before you even know you have ‘em.

I turned to the couple once I was done, smiled, & then realized they had totally fixated now on another self checker & missed that I was done. The self check monitor person politely but curtly informed them that mine was open. I found that amusing. I then returned my cart & hoped that eagles would come. They did not.

The drive back down Magnolia was hindered by two things: an elderly woman in a Corolla who had no idea that you do not need to leave 3 car lengths in front when stopped at a red light, and torrential rain. I listened to David Bowie, Depeche Mode, & imagined not killing anyone.

I came home & assembled my Lampas. Ikea’s second main purpose of existence appears to be testing how well I can remove stickers from things. The third is how quickly I can remove these stickers & other plastic bits from my cats’ mouths. Neil just puked up some, actually, during this writing.

Now that my duvet set is out of the dryer, here’s a couple of pics so you can know the ring was in fact cast into the fire:

…and a Lampa detail:

Well, I’m back.

So Imma write a blog. This will, as usual when I do this sort of Dear Diary crap, be a jumble of not-necessarily-in-order snippets. The idea is for you to soak in the flavour of friends hanging out, of comedy clubs, of Sunset Blvd at 1 AM, of Pat Benatar & Rod Stewart on the IHOP PA. This is, like, our Electric Kool Aid Acid Test except without Kool Aid or acid or Thom Wolfe or Neil Cassidy or a bus or really anything having to do with that book or era whatsoever.

Michael O’Connell is a guy I knew from Twitter & met at ComicCon 2010. How we met up at ComicCon is an extremely funny, longish story I can probably never tell. What I can share is that we ended up spending the Saturday of ComicCon 2010 next to the Death Star window smoking with his friend Tim & my friend Christi. We also met his friend Tony, whom I initially mistook for Wil Wheaton. I was like, “Whoa, this wheelchair comic dude knows Wil Wheaton in addition to several other SciFi Icons.” But it was actually Tony, who is cooler than Wil Wheaton, least of all because he never played Wesley Crusher.

Anyhow, as of that day, Michael & I were friends. He’s managed to score several gigs at fantastic LA venues (Flappers, The Laugh Factory, Jon Lovitz’ Comedy Club, & as of tonight, the Hollywood Improv). I’ve had the pleasure of seeing him perform 3 of these times, & once also in San Diego, where he was one of several thousand comics during a show spanning what seemed like 8 weeks of urinal jokes. Michael’s act was unique in that it featured no urinal jokes, not merely because he’s in a chair. Also his was one of three acts that night that made me, Bar, & Norm laugh. But I digress.

This evening began with me finding free parking, which is serendipitous on Melrose at any time, & going into the world famous Improv to see The Crippled Kings of Comedy show. Proceeds went to Special Olympics, which is hella my jam, y’all. So bonus points!

The Improv doesn’t allow cell action, so I felt a little naked not being able to Yelp my location to whomever the hell cared. This discomfort was soon replaced by a slew of pretty funny guys, many of whom were in wheel chairs, a couple of whom were blind, & some who were in that “WTF does that guy have?” category. I learned/confirmed a couple of things tonight:

1. Nearly every comedian ever has been in “My Name Is Earl”.

2. Molestation jokes are never funny, & don’t even get pity laughs when the comic is unmistakably disabled.

3. As I first encountered volunteering at the Special Olympics as a kid, disabled people have the best cripple jokes.

It was kind of a weird crowd. You could tell some people weren’t sure if they should laugh at people with MD or spinal injuries. There were a couple of freakin’ adorable Downs peeps in the audience who were clearly unused to swearing, but, just like my brother, got super excited whenever a comic did something very animated or loud. Downs people can be imitative, so I’m relieved nobody felt the need to act out anything obscene. The crowd also seemed fine with identifying as spiritual, but not religious. I still don’t find weed jokes funny, & thankfully Michael doesn’t have any drug related or obscene material. This makes him stand out, pardon the pun.

I have zero problem with obscene material, by the way. It’s just so normal these days that people who can be funny without it (i.e. not me) are more memorable.

Anyhow, despite the funniness of the funny, the funniest times for me are always the chit chat after the show. As Michael smokes a cigar & waits for a group photo that never manages to materialize, I get to hear him & other comics simply talk. My own signature ability in the presence of comics is to mess up jokes & say the exact absolute wrong thing at the wrong time. You may have noticed this on Twitter, too, where I’m nevertheless more smooth. Luckily my own idiocy is a material dispenser for those who are funny for a living, & I laugh easily, so I seem to not screw up too badly.

As one comic’s transpo arrived, he & his (you can’t make this up, people) amputee groupies emerged from the club. When he drove off, these stunningly pretty gals hung out with us & were so genuinely warm & nice that I was on the verge of Real Housewives-style inviting them on a girls’ vaycay where we’d no doubt degenerate into screaming matches on a yacht in Morocco. As it was, we all exchanged cards & they went on their way. I took an arty photo of Michael in front of the Improv, & we went to my car for to travel to IHOP.

I am happy to say I appear to have finally mastered the art of wheelchair folding & unfolding, though I’m terrified that the errant sunshade on my passenger side front seat threatens to decapitate Michael at any sudden stop. I can also fit a wheelchair in my trunk, which is handy to know if I ever want to abduct anyone in a wheelchair.

My phone died mid-direction, so luckily Michael was able to send me thither, which is shameful as I live here. No matter; we made it to the IHOP across from his hotel. I was provided with a pot of coffee & an omelet with 6 strips of bacon & a plethora of cheeses.

We then recalled the songs we wrote in high school & college (his had clever lyrics, mine had this one really grating industrial sound I invented on my synth), the show Millennium, Cameron Crowe films, the career of David Caruso.

Of the last, I described as best as I can (& if you know me, that ain’t saying much) 3:55 to 7:45 of this hilarious footage of Rob Zombie discussing the plight of directing David Caruso on CSI: Miami during an appearance on Red Eye. It is epic, & led Michael to say, “Oh my God, Rob Zombie has Post Caruso Stress Syndrome.” This is now my favourite sentence uttered by a human ever in this century.

We discussed a number of other things, but it was soon time to go. I used the lady’s loo before leaving, wherein I encountered that stereotype of Sunset Blvd, the meth addled hooker. She sang to herself while redrawing her eyebrows over & over again, apologizing to me for existing & for not getting the line right. I then wheeled Michael across the street, hugged him, & drove home via Laurel Canyon, which is an utter pleasure at 1AM.

The next time Michael O’Connell plays LA, come out! Not just for the comedy, but for the X-Files analysis. Believe.

Because I experience synesthesia, it’s difficult for me to hear when I also have trouble seeing. I’m also partly deaf in one ear so…you can see where this is going. My brain shut down.

This exchange begins w/ Tabs:
“This is not faster. Why aren’t they going faster?”

*giggling*

“Signals are typically more useful when deployed before the lane change.”

*giggling*

“What are you laughing at?”

“You’re funny.”

“These people are idiots.”

“Yes.”

“Now what is this guy doing? Is he turning? We are breaking and now we are turning, maybe? Oh, what is he DOING?”

“It’s the Persephone of minivans.”

“And now we are going. And now we are breaking. Come on, little car. Speed up.”

“Now we are going.”

“And now there is a bus.”

“Bus.”

“Why is there a bus? What is it doing?”

“Bus.”

“But what is it doing?”

“There was a time in my life where I said ‘bus’ a lot.”

“But what is it…oh, of course it’s turning. And why are YOU making a U turn?! People are stupid!”

“Bus.”

“Yes, bus. Ohmigod you know what we should do?”

“Bus. What?”

“We should have a food truck & call it the Boba Bus!”

“BOBA BUS! BOBA! Bus!” *peels of giggling*

“Boba Bus!”

“Boba! Bus!” *giggling*

*giggling*

“Bus.” *cackling*

“I’m not sure why you keep laughing.”

*disturbed cackling*

“I’m not that funny.”

*punctuated, disturbed cackling*

“It’s not so much the amount that you’re laughing so much as the manner in which you are laughing.”

*louder, highly sinister cackling*

“Ok.”

We’ve now parked & got out. We ascend the stairs to our home, at which point I say “Each stair seems to get taller. But then they feel the same. It’s too weird.”

“That’s the weird part?”

And scene.

I have no idea why I chose to share this with you.

“…I need a Tabster
Call me a Tabster
I need a Tabster, Tabster
To bring me back to life

It literally feels like a lifetime ago
But I remember the shit like it was just yesterday, though
You walked up
Firefly shirt, hallway, cracked a smile
Holy shit, you weren’t kidding
That hallway really IS a mile!
Went through friends; some of em I put on but they just left.
They said they was ridin’ to the death
But where the fuck are they now?
Now that I need them
I don’t see none of em
All I see is Kim.
Fuck all you fair weather friends;
All I need is Kim!”

Also her Elven name is Thenidrien. Well, if she were a Sindarin elf. If she prefers Quenya, it’s Sanyevende.

And in Dizzle, it’s Snoop Tabby Tabs, Esquizzle. That’s not a Middle Earth tongue. That’s mothafuckin’ LBC, y’all.

Anyhow, Tabby is the best person alive, just about, & I love her & am honored to be her roommate & friend.

“Call me a colour
That only appeals to you
Any one, it doesn’t matter
It’s the easiest thing you could do
Could do could do could do

I’ve gone & messed it up messed it up messed it up
Again
One more time, one more time &
You won’t be my friend

Please don’t let me down
Please don’t let me down

Life is just a series
Of relative disappointments
But I will be waiting and my mission is
To help you…”
–Toni Halliday

This is my favourite Curve song, obviously because it’s luscious, & it’s called “Mission From God”, & I’m all about serving God. But what sucks right now is that it perfectly exemplifies my life at this time with regard to a friend. And I don’t know how to make it right. So I’m just waiting for my friend to tell me what to do.

Also I’m not entirely sure what I’ve done.

If I had woken up this morning & written down the perfect compliment, I could not have come up with that.

I never thought of my life as interesting. It’s just…my life. Anyhow that guy was cool & I hope to see him again. He said he gets froyo near my work, so it’s likely. I asked him stuff but he never answered. I still have no idea what he does. He’s probably a rock star or a comic book writer.

One day I’ll write all that stuff down for you. But only the things that are mine. I don’t write about others unless they want me to, & in Los Angeles, most people just want to enjoy their days in privacy. I’m the same way, which is why any stories told are oral, & about Jesus mostly I guess.

You guys keep forgetting that Area 51 houses the nigh miraculous Space Barge, that will safely transport important Americans from Earth. Inexplicably, persons on that list include Tim Pawlenty & Bravo Andy.

The Space Barge is powered with a combination of Keystone Light & children’s wishes. The United States Science Corps has been working on this secret formula since 1977, when it was learned the Russians were *this* close to a vodka-powered wormhole generator. Thankfully for the US space program, Russians drink vodka, but nobody drinks Keystone Light. And children’s wishes remain our most potent natural resource.

President Obama has promised that the Space Barge program is also supplemented by the truly astounding matter transmogrification program, which to Star Trek fans would seem much like a transporter. The President has bravely volunteered to test this himself, which is why he is now frequently late to his own press briefings. It is not…perfected.

You know what? I can’t even keep this up any more. I’m too pissed off. Yes, Bush ended the shuttle program, but Obama scrapped a replacement. So now what?

Please vote for someone who gives a damn about American ingenuity in 2012, America. You want jobs? LET’S INVENT SOMETHING. Spring up an industry. Nobody has any ideas? Seriously?

Update: Please see Chris Barnhart’s comments below for NASA’s private sector developments. There’s hope at the end of an era.

I received an email from WordPress letting me know I’d been invited to see your blog. I will not name it here, as you clearly wished to keep that info private & I respect that wish. I do note that the name of it was clearly meant to get my attention.

I clicked on the link, but I’ve not been sent a username or password to see your blog. Therefore, I am currently unable to view it.

I am very anxious to do so, as you took the trouble to make it. However I’m also somewhat concerned that you might be someone who is legally bound from contacting me. Therefore, if you are simply a kind person who is not trying to get around that, please let me know ASAP so I don’t, ya know, freak out.

Thanks, & sorry that I had to communicate in this way. Since you needed my WordPress name to send the email from there, I figure you must read this blog.

Thanks, I think,

KJ

I’ve tweeted my various experiments with almond-based cake, & I keep promising to perfect the recipe from Pati’s Mexican Kitchen cos the damn thing has too much vanilla in it. Don’t get me wrong; it’s good if you hate almonds.

Me? I LURVE me some marzipan something fierce so I want it to taste like that, except bigger and cake! If like me you have celiac disease or, unlike me, a nasty gluten or wheat allergy, this recipe is for you. Have your cake and DON’T get dysentery from it, too!

Another glorious side effect of the almond cake is weight loss. Now, I am by no means advocating the inhaling of cake in order to slim down. We all know it’s about calories in & out. However, this cake is so dense & full of protein that a small amount keeps my hunger at bay for a good long time. Since I’ve been making & experimenting with this cake, I’ve lost two pounds without changing anything additional in my diet. Granted, I’m not sucking down ice cream. But still! Delicious diet cake!

Here’s how you make this bitch:

Go to the store & purchase:
-2 cups of slivered almonds (I prefer toasted to blanched)
-3/4 a cup of sugar
-a teaspoon to a tablespoon of almond extract (to taste)
-8 egg whites, or 4 whole eggs
-1/2 a cup of room temperature butter
-raspberry jam/jelly
-a food processor

If you already have these things at home, you need not purchase them.

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees & butter an 8×8 pan.

Dump the almonds & sugar into the food processor & pulse into a relatively fine powder. It need not be as fine as wheat flour, but you don’t want it coarse meal, either.

Now dump in the extract & eggs, then smoosh the room temp butter in on top. Process until completely incorporated & smooth.

Pour the batter into the pan & put in the oven for 30 minutes. If a chopstick or toothpick comes out clean at the end, it’s done. Set on a rack to cool. While still hot, spoon a couple of tablespoons of jam (jelly if you don’t want seeds) on to the hot cake & spread it across the top of the cake once it’s melted a little.

Leave the cake to cool as long as you can stand it.

Here’s the honesty part. I cut the cake into 16 pieces. You may as well just cut it into four, as that’s how you’ll want to eat it. I tend to eat two little pieces at a time, so technically I should cut it into 8ths, but I like to pretend I’m having seconds.

It’s good warm, but it’s fricken amazing cold, cos then it’s more like marzipan. This cake is truly eyes-roll-back-in-your-head embarrassing-public-orgasm good. It’s amazing with almond milk or strong black tea, & I’ve been told it can probably be easily made as a vegan treat (by vegans who presumably want me to make it for them).

This a snap for even achy fibromyalgics like me or super lazy people to make. I think its even easier than my old shortbread recipe.

Wrap the top w/ foil & stick in the fridge for future enjoyment. I plan to try a chocolate topped version for when I want to impress women.

Best of all, the base recipe is a snap & you can modify to your heart’s content, which is how I ended up with this one. You can get fancy & do it in a spring form pan with parchment paper, but seriously, who cares? It lifts out of the pan more easily than brownies, so unless you want to decorate, you can just do it like a sheet cake. You could use different jams, or different extracts (I bet coconut would be good…Ooh with grilled rum pineapple on top & whipped coconut milk!).

What I’m saying is, even men can make this. Go forth & delight the womenfolk! No one will ever choose “or death”…except people with horrendous nut allergies, of course. Send them round the corner to get a plain old normal people cake, then. Weirdos.