Most of the orders I receive are from women. They tend to be the planners of life. The get it done, down to the details types. Not to say that men don't ever do that, but in the general ways and means of things, I hear it over and over again. "My wife plans the calendar. I'll check with her." "She's the one that would arrange that. Why don't I have her call you." "Really, you should talk to the planner. She knows what's going on."
So that certainly makes the last 3 weeks memorable in my book.
The story begins with my van going to the shop. For 3 full days it was getting gutted and transmogrified in to something better. I hope. For that price. So, on a whim, when I went in to pick up my loaner car, I took in some truffles for the workers that were left from a recent batch. Cheap advertising, right?
That kind of thing never works.
Wrong. When I went in the next day to pick up my rehabilitated vehicle, I was, in order to take the van off the lot, shall we say, poorer. Let's just leave it at that. But the shop owner asked how much lead time I needed to fill an order. Because it was his anniversary. Today. 30 seconds of banter about his chocolate-fanatic soul mate and I was off to the market to procure the necessary items to redeem the day. At least for him. Triple Chocolate Torte.
She loved it. They all loved it. Success.
So the next week he called to laud on the cake, and to order the Chocolate Box with Caramel Mousse and Berries for his daughter's 16th birthday. And she loves, loves, loves strawberries. No blueberries, please. Just strawberries.
Great, I think. But it's the hottest day of the year thus far. Even with the air conditioning on, that chocolate box is all too quickly becoming a chocolate wobble. And the whipped cream on top is wilting. I retrieve it from the freezer when he arrives to pick it up, suggesting that it is very fragile and needs loving care to make it to his home.
I'm afraid to call him to see if she loved it because I don't want him to tell me it's time to take my car back in. For any reason. Whatsoever. Or that it melted in transit.
No comment. Moving on.
Friday, my hubby has a meeting and he wants to take treats. It's a morning session so we decide on Mini Caramel Rolls. Two dozen sweet, addicting little bits of goodness. Free. Advertising. Again.
Remember, that kind of thing never works.
Wrong again. Hubby's co-worker placed an order for a baby shower planned in July for another co-worker. Okay, okay, it's a women's event, planned by a woman. But it's my husband's fault, so he gets the credit.
Tonight this hubby mine is going to be with his gentlemen friends. I'm using that term loosely. These males head up to the Boundary Waters every year to get away from it all. If you're not from Minnesota, the Boundary Waters is real. And remote. No cell phones. No electricity. No toilets. No cars. No motorboats. Lots of lakes, trees, bugs, and some moose, bear and wolves.
They love it. Man showers also known as lake dips. Man faces, or no shaving. Why? Man jokes. Clean, mostly, or at least so I'm told. And man food. After all, who's cooking?
But last year these men, who never invite their wives to join them because this is a man's trip, complete with cigars and the occasional comfort noises, requested that I dispatch a cheesecake with them. To the Boundary Waters. Camping.
Men.
So, tonight they have been bequeathed my latest whimsy, Banana Split Cheesecake. It's a bit feminine to transport to the Boundary Waters. So we'll see what they think.
Besides, that kind of thing never works.
