On Saturday, I made you pastries for breakfast. To do this, I cut up an uncooked pie crust (readymade, not homemade) into little squares, put fruit filling and cream cheese on half of them, then closed those up with the remaining squares.
This seems like a nice act of love, right? Still, it’s sullied by the following:
(1) Saturday was your birthday. I made the pastries for that occasion, so I guess I’m double counting by considering this an act of love for the blog.
(2) A few weeks before your birthday, I said I would make you these on your birthday, but forgot until you reminded me the day before.
(3) I didn’t go out to buy the ingredients; you did. In my defense, you bought the ingredients prior to reminding me about the pastries and I was perfectly willing to buy them myself.
(4) I accidentally slept in on Saturday, so I didn’t have them done before you woke up.
(5) I asked you to help me make them because I was unsure about a few of the steps in the process. (I know, I know–it’s sad that I needed help cutting dough up into squares. But hey, I can make a killer pot of boiling water.)
In the end, though, at least I was trying to do something nice for you. Like they say: it’s the thought that counts. (Rather: sometimes, it’s the thought that counts and this seems to be one of those times.)