Julie emailed me this picture. Thank heaven, because I seriously thought Harvey Wallbanger had one too many himself suggesting that Crisco comes in liquid form.
My new year's resolution: To peruse the baking aisle more slowly paying a little more attention in 2007.
Now about the party....I did not go. I know I know you all really wanted to see a picture of me in heels (I don't think I still own any) and a dress with a crinoline (I know I still don't own one of those, although I was pretty darn cute in 1987 at the senior ball flouncing through downtown Wilmington, Delaware at the Hotel Dupont in a peach strapless number with a circa Madonna the early years crinoline.) Maybe I will look for that photo in my spare time today. Yes, it was peach and it did have a crinoline and it was strapless, you think I could make this stuff up?
Why did I not go to the New Year's Eve bash of midwestern cul-de-sac fame?
Yes, party girl pooped out early.
Despite her "I'm ready to hang with my sould sister Paris Hilton face", she truly is not. She might be cutting a tooth and pooped out on me at 7pm last night.
Since I had been up with her at the un-godly hour of 6 am with miss lindsey lohan for the last few days and was feeling like I needed sweat pants and a hair clip, I sent the Muffin Man to formally escort the real party chandelier swinger. Miss Ava Jing rocked the house with her 5 year old peeps sipping non-alchy peach champagne until 10:30pm.
Now before you get all "You poor thing, you baked a cake and everything." Don't you feel sorry for me. I sat in my delightfully quiet house watching big screen HBO, The Producers if you must know, eating a large plate of jalapeno nachos. Again, homemade by moi. Now who is the real party girl? It was a small and fleeting slice of heaven. I had the quiet house ALL TO MYSELF. Pour me a glass of champagne.
Back to the cake. As of last report, this morning at 8:30am by the Muffin Man: At 10:30 pm last night when the cake was last seen no one had broken into the lovely glass topped cake dish cover. I repeat, no one tried the damn thing. I asked if he took the lid off and cut one slice out so the less formal and uber nice mid-western folks would not have to bear the brunt of the dreaded and must be avoided at all turns task of cutting the first slice of a cake? "Uhhh, no" he replied.
And so there you have it. The update. It is probably still sitting on my neighbors kitchen table in it's glass shell. Pristine. Party goers waking this morning might even think it was store bought, since it was so pretty and all. No one gets to share in the fact that the real story behind that party was in a little alcohol laced bundt cake.
I've moved on. I am no longer emotionally attached to finding out whether it matters if you have Galliano or Grand Marnier or if it make a difference whether you accidently substitute shortening for vegetable oil.
Today Ava and I are making frozen Pineapple Ice Cream cake. It was a favorite Canadian dish from my mother's youth, and I've made it before so I know that no oil is needed. I smell guaranteed success.