This week my good friend @pstrack ventured down to New Orleans to watch the Razorbacks choke play in the Sugar Bowl. He was kind enough to bring me back a King Cake, which aside from the bead exchange might be the greatest part of Mardi Gras in New Orleans. I am sure the king cake has a fascinating story, however I like to imagine it went a little something like this:

(setting: 2 college guys at LSU in the 60’s)

Guy 1: I’m hungry, all I got left is cake mix
Guy 2: What is that noise? I wish it would shut up.
Guy 1: That is just the neighbor’s baby.
Guy 2: Hey, I got an idea. Let’s cook the baby inside the cake.
Guy 1: I think that is murder or something. What if we just throw this little plastic baby in there?

The whole cooking a baby inside a cake freaks me out a little. At the dinner table last night while we were digging into our king cake dessert though I had an epiphany, my wife is a king cake.

I often refer to the baby (among other things) as the bun in the oven, which she absolutely hates for the record. Also recently (in what is sure to be a post soon) it has been freaking me out a little to think she has a human inside her. She is basically a walking king cake with a little less icing.

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