I Can’t Bake.

It’s true, my personality does not allow me to bake. I am a fly by the seat of my pants type of girl and this is not conducive to baking. All of that measuring and precision is not for me. However, I do recognize a good cake when I see one. My cousin is a great baker, a temperamental baker, but a baker nonetheless. She usually makes all of Gracie’s birthday cakes and they are always amazingly clever. But what you have to go through while she is baking the cake makes it almost not worth it. Almost. Why are bakers always like that? They are probably just frustrated with all that measuring and precision but just won’t admit it, so it just festers inside of them and they take it out on unsuspecting cake eaters. But we still eat the cake so we are the enablers. I learned all of this from my friend Tom; he’s a therapist. We literally speak for hours a day about everything and nothing and solve all the world’s problems and wonder why everyone isn’t perfect like us. But anyway, back to cake and The Art of Entertaining.

To finish off a party, bringing out a cake, is just glorious. Just glorious! I prefer a homemade cake with homemade icing. It’s always a good idea to add a little “pièce de résistance” to your cake. Flowers, fruit or a supercool cake topper. Yes, I said it… Cake topper. There are some chic cake toppers believe it or not. Look look look…

 

And don’t forget the cake plate! Look look look…

 

 

 

If you want to see more fabulous cakes, cake toppers and cake plates, check out my Have Some Decorum Cake Pinterest board HERE

So on Saturday, we went to that fancy antique show I told you about. I have been to about, without exaggeration, 4 to 5 billion antique shows in my lifetime. This was one of the best. It even smelled good.

My husband and I got into a bit of a tiff/argument/discussion because I told him that I had heard that the antique show had so many valuables that it was insured for $50 billion. He disagreed and said, “Not 50 billion. Maybe 50 million.” My friend Tom, the therapist, always says to me, “Ellie, do you want to be right or do you want to be happy.” I want to be right so I said to my husband, “No, it’s 50 billion, douche bag.” When we got to the antique show, we went through the Graf jewelry booth and saw numerous flawless 50 carat diamond rings, in addition to Picassos, Mirós, 17^th century boiserie, Boulle furniture and Roman statues. My husband looked at me regretfully and said, “You were right. It’s probably $50 billion.” It’s so good to be right AND happy.

Here are a few photos.

 

 

On Sunday, we went to the “other flea market.” It was way out in the 14^th arrondissement so we took an Uber taxi. As soon as we got there I felt like “something was not quite right.” I couldn’t breathe very well so then, of course, I started to have a panic attack. When this is happening, I usually try to distract myself and I tried, I really tried to let the flea market be my distraction. Did not work. There were too many people, too much junk, the smell of french fries in the morning, and cigarette smoke mixed with sweaty French people. This has happened to me before. One year in Mallorca Spain, Diandra roused all of us at an alarming hour to go to the local farmers market. Within 30 minutes of us getting there, I was sitting on the curb, clammy, head hung low, sipping a Spanish version of Sprite and having a nervous breakdown. Why? Because Diandra bought Spanish ham at one stall and then a live bird at the next stall and then some cheese at the next stall. It was about 300°, we were hung over and the last thing you want to see is salami and animals co-mingling in repressive heat. I thought I was going to die. I should have known better yesterday. My husband tried to calm me down yesterday by trying to buy me something. This trick usually works but I didn’t even want anything. Except, now looking back, I really wish I would’ve had my wits about me because I really wish I would’ve bought these gorgeous yellow dishes. Now I’m going to spend a lifetime looking for their replacement. I did catch a glimpse of the stamp of the bottom. Martres France. There was also a little painting I should have bought but I didn’t have the energy to even take a picture of it. I just wanted to get the f*ck out of there. We summoned the Uber taxi. Nothing available. Apparently, Uber didn’t want to come to this flea market either. So we just started walking. My husband even admitted that he did not feel right at the flea market. We both decided that this flea market had bad mojo. We walked all the way home. From the 14^th arrondissement to the 1^st arrondissement! The only good thing about the day was that I saw these beautiful abandoned train tracks on our walk home. But besides that, the whole day was  hell. Note to self: stay in your comfort zone.

 

Stay tuned for the final installment (for now) of The Art of Entertaining. Hint: invisible tape.

*Thank you so much to everyone for their comments on something that we don’t know about each other! It’s fun getting to know everyone. What I really mean is that I’m glad we all hate the same things. Here’s something you don’t know about me. I never ever ever allowed Gracie to lick the cake batter because I was afraid of the raw eggs. Gracie learned the words “salmonella poisoning” before she could walk. She still hates me for that. My response: “Well guess what Gracie? Thanks to me you’re still alive.”