As if there is not enough sugar around here to seriously endanger one's pancreatic functions, Big Liver Girl has given the Loudshoes household a motherlode of her Buttercream Eggs.
I had never heard of Buttercream Eggs until I met Big Liver Girl, who makes them annually with her children over at her mother's house. Her mother, who is as pragmatic and down-to-earth a woman as you will ever meet, has no problem conjuring up these fanciful and otherworldly little tidbits, and distributing them to the unsuspecting. But be warned, they are more addicting than heroin....one small bite and you are in their thrall.
I've been given the recipe for Buttercream Eggs, but I have conveniently misplaced it, all in an attempt at self-preservation. Because, believe me, Thing 1 and I are pitifully helpless when it comes to self-discipline and Buttercream Eggs. The recipe reads something like "take a pound of butter, add enough icing sugar until it can be formed into small, dense balls of hedonism, cover with dark chocolate. Eat until you topple off your chair due to diabetic coma. When you wake up, it will be a brand new day. Repeat." Can you imagine if I made a batch here? Thing 1 and I would get nothing at all done.
I love that Buttercream Eggs come, handmade, from Big Liver Girl, and her children and her mother. I love that they come all wrapped up in waxed paper. I love that their family tradition has trickled down to me. I love that those eggs rattle my teeth and make my eyes roll back in my head and re-arrange my neurons; that once a year sugar-rush is sublime. I took a picture of the Buttercream Eggs, just to illustrate their deliciousness, and Toby was enchanted by them too, he had to get a look:Here are the real Buttercream Eggs.
And now I'm going to eat that, in small increments, over the evening. I still want to be able to get up for work tomorrow.