Written last night while the cake cooled and I submitted poetry. Posted this morning while I pretend not to want more of both.

It was late last night when Word Raccoon started demanding something spicy or she was going to commandeer the kitchen and end up eating as much cake as her little trash panda tummy could hold while sitting in the cake pan.

I told her I didn’t care how old she thought she was, that title was TOO MUCH. And I grabbed the pan from her.

She said I’m too much.

She reminded me that I (blushing) actually said earlier in the day: “May I be alone with my thoughts?”

To another human.

With a straight face.

And yes, I meant it. At the time.

So maybe WR was right. Maybe I am the one who’s too much. 

After I ate, I apologized for the drama and had a good laugh at my pretentious self, but to be fair, I had just emerged from an intense novel scene and was attempting to warm dinner (which involved slicing the second pork tenderloin from the day before), remember what butter is, and how to heat rolls, keeping track of burners and the toaster oven all while my brain was still buzzing from that scene I had been writing.

That scene. 

Instead of returning to the novel after dinner, I baked the cake I’d promised Word Raccoon.
It took its good sweet time, to the extent that by the time it cooled, it had officially become today’s cake.

Which is fine, since I did call it a Weekend Cake. So it tracks.

(Chocolate cake with chocolate icing. Or maybe no icing. Depends on the mood today.)

I danced and sang to Queen while I baked. 

Still not quite ready to dive back into writing the novel without a full mental runway (later today, I hope), I did the thing that WR had been poking me about for days: I submitted a packet of food poetry.

Then I looked at another journal.

Their submission guidelines weren’t draconian, but last night, with a weary brain and a cake timer ticking down, they might as well have been. 

But also, I was loath to submit because I was so tired.

WR and I had just heard “Don’t Stop Me Now,” and the lyrics felt like a personal dare.

And so:

“Submit it and quit it,” WR yelled.

That scandalous varmint.

I submitted it. Quickly. Made sure I followed their rules but didn’t linger. Got in, got out.

Then I sat down to write this while the cake cooled. (I did freeze part of the cake, because otherwise, instead of the English muffin with Canadian bacon, egg, and avocado I made this morning, WR would have begged for cake. And she would’ve won.)

Cake is, after all, her favorite dessert.

Besides poetry.

Shhh… if we’re not careful, she’ll want cake and poetry again tonight.

I don’t think so.

Well, maybe. 

Unless she does something novel.

(See what I did there?)