Then I remembered one of the Primary Presidency on Sunday joking to the kids that if they wanted to they could make her an apple pie. Cool, I thought, chewing on a stray blob of buttery lusciousness, I’ll give her half the cake.
I baked someone half an apple streusel recently. I didn’t deliberately set out to do it. Too many apples, a new baking tin, a prodigal pack of butter returned from the crisper and an internal bellowing for sweetness had me humming and puddling thick mix between my fingers and the springform’s edges before I realised it was a REALLY big tin, and there was no way I – uh, I mean, my boys and I – could eat the entire cake.
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