There is an easy way and a hard way to do anything.
According to my mother, I always pick the hard way. It’s just one of my charming personality traits.
The other day I spent what felt like six hours making a batch of 100 cake balls for a pre-Christmas get-together. I might be exaggerating about how long it took but it seemed an awfully long time. I felt like one of those explorers who journey to the South Pole with hope and determination burning in their hearts, committed to reaching their goal no matter what the personal cost.
Now I didn’t lose any fingers or toes in the making of these cake balls but relations did become increasingly tense between Mr Hungry Australian and I.
Every now and then he would stroll through the kitchen and say, “you’re STILL making those cake balls?
“Go away!” I’d shriek.
Talking over the cake ball debacle the next day with my school friend Megan, she couldn’t understand why it took me so long.
“But I made some the other day and they only took me half an hour,” she said, blankly.
“Half an hour?” I spluttered. “But how?”
“I bought a pre-made cake, mixed it with a tub of pre-made icing, dipped the balls in chocolate and that was it,” she said serenely, little knowing how close she was to physical danger.
