However, yesterday I did the unthinkable. I actually walked in to one of -shire's most fabulous French inspired bakeries and, after ordering a croissant sandwich and an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie, dropped off a mysterious package. No, not planning on blowing up the bakery, not unless they discontinue their dark pain au chocolate. I think they ought to buy and frame some of my enlarged Parisian prints for their new space, and told them as much. In politer terms, of course. A letter complete with apologies for being so forward to suggest such a thing. With photographic samples. My husband was waiting outside with the engine running so I could make a quick getaway. I felt like I had just stuffed my pockets full of macaroons and roasted almond shortbreads and tried to make a slick escape. I think I would behaving far less anxiety about this whole scheme if Canada Post had just delivered the package instead.
Last year, when I was on vacation all by my lonesome, I went so stir crazy bored I started making cupcakes. Weird flavoured cupcakes. Mocha cherry. Blueberry lemon cream. Orange cranberry chocolate. Caramel pecan. I fed them to my coworkers, none of whom died. I even once set up a cupcake bar with a choose your own topping sort of deal. It was that day I discovered that many of my coworkers share my loathing for icing. I felt less alone in the world, and that perhaps hours of therapy had been avoided thanks to the revelation in the cupcakes.