I'm pretty sure that when one is baking a cake as a loving [very belated birthday]
surprise for one's husband, one should not get inordinately angry about clogged beaters, globs of butter, spattering milk, and quite unsmooth and unshiny batter. I believe I muttered FUCK
in my mind at least 25 times in the ten minutes it took to whisk up this masterpiece:
We're going to eat it anyway, by God. And it will be good.