Peanut Butter Chocolate Cake
The Great and Powerful Trixie Bakes a Cake
Admiral Biscuit
Trixie trudged into her home, and tossed her backpack at the hall closet. She kicked behind her to shut the front door, before shuffling down the hallway and into the living room. With a dramatic sigh to the empty room, she collapsed on the threadbare couch. One hand fumbled around for the TV remote, while the other began unlacing her boots.
She clicked on the TV, and proceeded to ignore it entirely as she tugged her boots off, letting out a contented sigh as her feet were finally free to breathe again. She wiggled her toes victoriously.
Her jacket went next, tossed over the back of the couch. Finally relaxed and stretched out, she began surfing through channels, giving each show thirty seconds to entertain her before she moved on to the next.
Depressingly, there was not a single thing on TV which caught her fancy.
“The Great and Powerful Trixie demands entertainment,” she told the cable box, before spitefully turning it off. “Since you can’t provide it, the Great and Powerful Trixie will . . . bake a cake.”
She jumped to her feet and headed up to her bedroom. She couldn't bake a cake in her school clothes; she might get them dirty. One quick change that would have done the Masked Matter-Horn proud later, she was wearing a comfortable halter top and sweatpants with “Colts” printed up the outside of both legs.
“Alright. Time for Trixie to wow the audience.” Trixie turned on the radio and began opening cupboards.
She needed no cookbook. She was a master of the culinary arts. Her fingers danced across the stove's buttons and knobs, setting the oven to 350°.
Trixie pulled a large glass mixing bowl out of the cupboard and quickly measured out brown sugar, peanut butter, and oil. She grabbed a wooden spoon out of a repurposed coffee can and twirled it between her fingers like a baton, before attacking the sweet ingredients in the bowl, mixing them together with broad strokes.
Once they were well-combined, she cracked two eggs into the mix, and about a capful of vanilla extract, pouring it with a bartender's flourish. “Are you going to Scarborough Fair?” She sang along with the radio, her dulcet voice blending perfectly with the radio. She cradled the bowl just under her breasts, dancing around the kitchen as she worked. Baking is magic—making something out of nothing.
She set that bowl aside and grabbed another, filling it with the flour, baking powder, and a tiny bit of salt. Trixie worked it with her fingers, feeling when it was perfectly combined into a homogenous mass. Back to the main bowl, she alternated between adding buttermilk and the flour blend. “Parsely, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme.” None of that for the cake, of course.
Her batter complete, she pulled open the corner cabinet with a foot and twirled around the lazy susan until she found a 9 x 3 round baking pan. She pulled it off the shelf with a foot and kicked it up into her waiting hands, spun it on a finger, and then flipped it onto the counter with a flourish. “Tell him to make me a cambric shirt,” she told the pan, spinning on a heel to head for the fridge.
The pan was still rocking back and forth with a gentle 'whong, whong' when she returned with a stick of butter. She greased the pan, and then poured the batter in, scraping the bowl clean with a spatula, then cleaning the spatula with her tongue. “Tell him to wash it in yonder well.” She spun it between her fingers one more time, then flipped it into the sink, holding her arms up victoriously as it splashed down in the soapy water.
Before putting her soon-to-be masterpiece in the oven, she squinted through the glass at the thermometer hanging from the oven rack, making sure that it was actually 350. It was; so Trixie held the pan proudly aloft in one hand, opened the door with the other, and slid the pan into the oven.
She set the silly cow-shaped kitchen timer to thirty minutes, and allowed herself a brief break, snatching a can of iced tea from the fridge.
Trixie downed half the can, then slammed it on the counter. She rinsed out the two mixing bowls, then began preparing the frosting. After all, a cake without frosting was a travesty.
The rest of the butter went into the bowl, along with more peanut butter. Trixie loved peanut butter, and if she had her way, everything would come with peanut butter. Of course, her hips and butt didn't love peanut butter, so maybe it was better that it was a treat, rather than a staple.
She mixed it until it was smooth and creamy, and then began adding confectioner's sugar and heavy cream. Seized by an irresistible impulse, she also mixed in some cocoa powder, because chocolate peanut butter frosting would be just a little bit better than plain peanut butter frosting.
Her talented spoon-work quickly blended the frosting, and she set it off to the side. The ever-bountiful refrigerator yielded up a cold Manwich, which—along with the rest of her can of tea—made up the bulk of her dinner. She could have put it on a plate, and set herself a place at the table, but she didn't. It was much more relaxing to lean back against the kitchen counter and eat it that way.
Of course, enjoying it this way, she ran the risk of stray bits falling down her top, but she didn't care. It was much nicer to be eating in the kitchen, surrounded by the smells of baking and the warmth of the oven than alone in the cold dining room.
She was elbow deep in hot soapy water when the timer dinged. The cake passed the toothpick test, so she set it on a trivet to cool, waiting for an eternal five minutes for it to be ready to remove from the pan.
As it was cooling on a rack, protected from the harsh metal wires by a sheet of waxed paper, Trixie washed all the dishes, dried them, and put them away. She hated a messy kitchen.
The next part was the longest, boringist part of making a cake, and Trixie had no intention of being around for it. The cake needed to cool enough that the frosting wouldn't melt as soon as it was applied, so she went upstairs to take a shower.
In the morning, before she went to school, her showers were quick and business-like. The goal was to get clean as quickly as possible, saving enough time for her morning grooming and a bowl of cereal.
At night, though . . . she undressed and admired herself in the mirror as the water warmed up, waiting until the fog had totally obscured the reflection of her perfect figure, before she opened the glass door and stepped into steamy bliss.
She took her time washing herself, and when was done, she turned her back to the showerhead and let it beat down and finish the stress-relaxation that baking had started. If it hadn't been for the limits of a hot-water heater, Trixie could take a shower forever. Dad sometimes complained about how long she was in the bathroom— but he wouldn’t be back from work for hours, so she stayed until the water began cooling down, before reluctantly shutting off the water and getting out of the shower.
Naturally, the towel bar was vacant. She darted into the hallway long enough to grab a new one from the linen closet, before returning to the steamy warmth of the bathroom.
After her skin was dry, she put her sweatpants and halter top back on, then wrapped her hair in a clean towel. She skipped down the steps, the cake practically in her mouth already.
Working carefully with a large kitchen knife, she cut it in half, put a thick layer of frosting on the bottom, and flipped the top over so it would be flat. That meant more frosting towards the edge, but that wasn't a bad thing.
In no time at all, the cake was completely frosted, and she garnished it with fresh mint leaves.
She eyed her creation critically, examining it from every angle, before cutting herself a slim sliver. In her mind, cooking show judges were giving her praise for her magnificent cake, commending her daring use of ingredients and her bold presentation. Just you wait until you taste it, she thought, and forked a piece into her mouth.
It was the flavor dreams are made of. If perfection were a cake, it would have been this cake. Trixie let out a very unladylike moan, and forced herself to eat it slowly, savoring every bite.
At times like these, Trixie was utterly convinced that baking was magic. None of the ingredients by themselves—except for the peanut butter—could approach the nirvana of the whole cake.
She could have eaten the whole thing, but she didn't, tempting though the idea was. She gave her plate a regretful look before licking it clean, and washing it off in water that was no longer hot.
Author's Note
A One-Shot-Ober fic
Want to bake that cake?
Killer peanut butter cake
