With my 45th birthday approaching like a runaway Peterbuilt on the downhill grade from Tahoe, my soul-daughter Annalise decided to either try and lessen the impending impact by helping me create a protective layer of fat, or mercifully take me out of the equation all together by means of a massive myocardial infarction.
To this end she drove down from Ft. Bragg with a platter, a plethora, a platoon of the most amazing, delicious, and decadent to the extent of actually being depraved, cupcakes I have ever had the pleasure of stuffing into my gob.
The bulk of my bulk will have been made of the incredible Irish Car Bombs—named after the drink which includes, as does the cupcake, Guinness stout, Bailey’s Irish cream and Bushmills Irish whiskey.
When we illegally parked behind the Kentfield police substation for the handoff of these lil’ beauties (the last place the Feds would look), the treats were still off-gassing enough alcohol fumes to warrant a breathalyzer test had I been pulled over.
The unholy trinity of Guinness/chocolate cake, an actually explosive whiskey/chocolate “ganache” filling (which I have since learned is French for jowl, those goddamned French), and a Bailey’s buttercream frosting perfectly combine to warm the heart, and bloodstream, of any good Fenian gourmand.
Unsatisfied with planting a giant plate of chocoholic IEDs in and around my personage, the payload came with a smaller satellite stack of margarita cupcakes. Just as strong. Just as tasty. Is this numbness in my arm bad?