Coworker of mine?
If you are, you are welcome.
This cake is for you.

a grand old chocolate cake, in stages.

I’d write a real post
but was up ’til all hours
baking this damn cake.

Why? Office party.
And the resident foodie
cannot disappoint.

a grand old chocolate cake, in stages.

So no description,
loving, of these beaten eggs.
You get some haiku.

Life, she is not fair.
So you should get a helmet.
Safety first, my friends.

a grand old chocolate cake, in stages.

This cake is not mine.
It is Epicurious,
but I can’t top it.

Dark chocolate, coffee,
it is redolent and rich.
Resistance = futile.

Yes, the equal sign
is cheating. But it is late;
the rules are hazy.

a grand old chocolate cake, in stages.

The liquid batter
bakes forever and ever.
Also: and then some.

Could have spent that time
writing a real post, but I
fear I indulge you.

Keep expectations low,
and you can fob a haiku
post, feeling no shame.

a grand old chocolate cake, in stages.

Perfectly flat tops
mean you don’t have to trim them.
A godsend for some.

I mean, we’re not all
facile with the trimming knife.
I’m only human.

For this same reason
I didn’t split the layers.
Also I’m lazy.


I spit on low light
that doesn’t let me get
needed shutter speed.

If I had good light,
you would see the whir! whir! whir!
and not just this blargh.

I fully support
you starting a collection
for my new Speedlite.


Like so many things,
frosting is better with booze.
Bailey’s Irish Cream.

I’m sorry you won’t
be there. Not my colleagues. They?
Will kill for cake. Again.


There are no pics of the
frosting process. Greasy hands
plus camera = full stop.

A bakery box
makes things more professional,
even for a schlub.

I’ll try to shoot the
innards, if vulture colleagues
can lay off long enough.

But no promises.