Home made

They’re wonky. The jam is running down the side. No two are the same. They sit quietly in anticipation, waiting to be chosen.

The very best cupcakes in the world possess these qualities because they are usually made by someone who loves you. Or like these cupcakes, they are made by some very clever and dedicated women who make and sell them at various markets, community events and fundraiser cake stalls. These particular cupcakes were made for a small local community event some time ago, and I couldn’t resist taking a photo of the sweet edible treasures. Despite the very humble protestations from the women who made them, I could tell they were just a little bit proud that someone had appreciated their home made efforts.

Do not underestimate the power of a home made cake. It has the potential to warm your heart and make you smile even before you eat it.

I hate nice biscuits

Sometimes I don’t want to be nice. Sometimes I feel like kicking a tree or yelling at my noisy neighbour. There are days when I’m in shopping centres waiting in a long queue to be served and I swear I am going to scream.

But I don’t. Because I am nice. Also, it wouldn’t make me feel any better, in fact, I know I’d feel worse. Plus I’d make someone else’s day take a downward turn. And that’s not cool. People have always told me that I’m nice. I’d like to keep it that way.

Which reminds me. A friend once declared that he hated nice biscuits. How can that be, you ask, when the very point of biscuits is that they are, well, nice. Did that mean that he only liked mean biscuits? No, he meant to say ‘Nice’ as in the French town which sounds like ‘niece’. Instead he said ‘Nice’ which rhymes with rice. I’m not sure if Arnotts are aware of the confusion which this biscuit creates.

I wonder if Nice biscuits ever get sick of the pronunciation confusion around their name? Maybe while they sit innocently on a plate, waiting to be eaten, they’re looking forward to dropping crumbs and making a mess just to aggravate someone for calling them Nice instead of Nice. ‘Merde’, the biscuits would yell, ‘I’m French, don’t insult me or I’ll cut you.’

Well, I guess it’s OK to be nice. It’s what keeps the wheels of our society oiled. And it means that you get to have friends and birthday presents and other nice stuff.

Just don’t mess with the biscuits, I’m telling you, they’ve got issues.

(P.S. I’m not implying that the French swear and want to cut people when they’re angry, it’s just the biscuits talking.)

The great icy pole disaster of Saturday afternoon

Two 8 year old boys were walking along happily enjoying their icy poles, on a warm sunny afternoon. ‘Life is pretty good’ said the look on one boy’s face. ‘I am totally living in the moment and I don’t even have to try’ said the look on the other boy’s face. Side by side, the brothers delighted in a treat that made a good day even sweeter.

And then it happened.

Half of the red icy pole had broken off and fallen with a dull splat onto the footpath. The boy didn’t notice at first, and kept walking. But when he did notice, his face fell, and the contentment turned to sorrow. He stopped. Paused. Half turned and kept looking backwards and forwards from the remainder of his icy pole in his hand to the now melting mess on the warm ground.

He stepped to go back, to do what? Retrieve it? But no, he knew it was a lost cause and so accepting his fate, he continued walking and didn’t look back again.

Loss is a harsh lesson to learn, especially when it’s unexpected, on a perfect and sunny summer’s afternoon when you’re an 8 year old boy eating an icy pole.

Yoghurt Yoga

I hope this has never happened to you, because that would be, well, you know, awkward.

Car park sushi

There it was. Quietly sitting on the ground in the car park next to the trolley bay. Perfectly packaged takeaway sushi. It didn’t look as though it had been dropped. It looked neatly placed. All of the tempting pieces were lined up in well spaced rows.

What was it doing there? Had some starving and harried person placed it there as they were searching for their keys whilst talking on the phone and buckling kids into their seats, eventually driving off without it? Was it a hidden camera trick to see if anyone would pick it up and eat it? Or could it have been a modern art piece, placed by an enthusiastic art student to make comment on the poetic relationship between fish, shopping trolleys and car parks?

I stared as I walked past, I couldn’t take my eyes off it as though I had just witnessed the evidence of a mini suburban tragedy. Why were you in the car park that day, sushi, why?