I have a hard core, lay down at the altar, chocolate worshiping friend. Naturally, her birthday called for a feast of fudge and chocolate cake.

The fudge scared me a little as it began to bubble and splatter on the stove top. It seemed to take on a life of its own. The Sweetie took a peek at the production and became frightened for me.

“Be careful,” he warned, “I seem to recall some calamity with you and boiling sugar.”

I didn’t want to remind him of the boiling sugar incident. I had attempted caramel corn and became overly excited when I poured the caramel on the popcorn. I eagerly grabbed a big handful only to have the molten clump stick to my hand and burn it. Boiling sugar is really, really hot. It was so sticky that I couldn’t shake it off, and ended up screaming and hopping around the kitchen with a gooey mass fused to my hand.

Making the chocolate cake was less dangerous and dramatic. Since my friend is a fan of horses I topped the cake with mincing plastic ponies.

Some may think that at the age of forty-one my tastes should have evolved. Rather than topping a cake with plastic horses found at a garage sale I should be baking sophisticated tortes involving fig compote and marscapone cheese topped with delicate sugared violets.

Then again, at forty-one I should be confident enough to make a chocolate cake topped with toys if I feel like it. It may not win accolades from Martha Stewart, but it was yummy and chocolatey and my friend was happy.

Besides, you never outgrow chocolate, and a girl is never too old to want a pony.

The temperature has dropped over the past few days, offering up a bit of respite from the humidity and allowing me a break from lamenting my regretful winter of eating nothing but carbs and avoiding the gym. When the thermometer rises I am thrown into a panic knowing that I can no longer hide under layers of clothing, attributing the extra bulk to my sweaters and puffy coat. I begin to worry that I will have to resort to wearing Mrs.Roper inspired caftans and send myself into a tailspin of carb bloated remorse. The cooler temperatures put a temporary halt to my panic so naturally, I decided to bake chocolate chip cookies.

I was intrigued by these chocolate chip cookies I saw on Smitten Kitchen that were described as the ever elusive crispy on the outside chewy on the inside cookie. I think these may indeed be the ones, although I can’t say for sure because I ate half of the cookie dough before they went in the oven, and I managed to overcook the remainder because I got distracted looking at arm exercises on the internet. The irony of watching exercises while eating cookie dough is not lost on me. I will try these again during the next cool spell, perhaps while sporting a new summer caftan.

The other day I ventured into Anthropologie with my girlfriend, “just to window shop.”

“I know you are on a strict budget, I won’t let you buy anything, we’ll just look,” my friend assured me.

We wandered around sighing, randomly touching lovely frocks, diaphanous blouses and whimsical tablecloths.

If we passed something particularly fetching and dangerously tantalizing, my friend would immediately say, “that would be so ugly on you!”

If I lingered too long near anything, she would say, “that would be even more hideous on you, don’t even look at it, I think I am going to vomit!”

“Not as much as I’d vomit if I saw you in this!” I’d say, holding up the perfect dress for her.

“Wouldn’t you love to wear this to the garden party I’d have to show off my new tropical painted serving dishes?” I’d ask, holding out a flimsy frock. “And look, here is the apron I’d be wearing as I’d prepare punch and canapes for everyone.”

Every now and then my friend would gasp and hold out the perfect ensemble, “If I won the lottery, I would totally buy this for you!”

“If I won the lottery I’d buy that for me too! And then I’d get something for you too,” I’d answer.

Then I saw it. A delightful little frothy top in the sale section, in my size, reduced from $148.00 to $29.99. So really, it was like a savings of $118.00, right? I tried it on (just to try) and instantly fell in love, as did my friend.

“You have to get it. I’m sorry. I know I was supposed to help, but you have to.”

I had to.

It is the perfect Holly Hobbie gets a job as a secretary blouse. When I brought it home The Sweetie didn’t look convinced, saying, “isn’t it another loose top that looks like a pregnancy top that you have been trying to move away from?” Finally however, he had to admit that it had a Little House on the Prairie meets Librarian kind of charm.

To atone for falling off my thrifty no-shopping wagon, I decided to cook lentils. Lentils with couscous, a lentil loaf and a lentil curry. We have a lot of lentils and they are cheap. It is all about checks and balances. I can be indulgent and frugal at the same time. I can feel guilty and smug all at once. I will wear my Holly Hobbie Librarian shirt, stuff myself with lentils, and be charmingly chic and cheap doing so.

I love phyllo pastry. I have always loved its crispy transparent layers and I could eat a truck load of baklava until my teeth melted from the sweetness. I have always been too intimidated to use it myself, however. All the talk of covering the pastry with a damp towel and brushing it with oil seemed too finicky for my liking. I am not particularly precise when I cook, forgoing measuring cups and often forgetting how long something has been in the oven. Despite my fear of phyllo I must have had plans for it at some point because there has been a box of it sitting in the freezer forever. It regularly falls out and hits The Sweetie or me on the foot, along with my frozen banana collection that will one day yield enough banana bread to feed an entire city.

Since the tax-time meltdown The Sweetie and I have resolved to start eating our way through the pantry and freezer in an attempt to be more frugal and save on our grocery bills. As a result it was finally time to face the phyllo before it crushed our toes.

Phyllo is a dream and does not deserve its fearful reputation. I made two large spanakopitas, and being my new non-wasteful self, I used Nutella as a filling for the leftover bits, brushed them with melted butter, baked for 15 to 20 minutes and almost swooned as I gobbled them up. So delicious.

I will no longer let my fear of damp cloths get in the way of phyllo pastry joy.

Now this is a breakfast befitting an Easter bunny and all his minions. Hash browns made of pound cake, melted Cadbury’s Easter Creme eggs topping a donut and brownie. Surely it would send one into an instant diabetic coma but what a glorious sendoff it would be.

Despite my proclamations to be prepared for Easter this year, with visions of sending a hand knit bunny to my nephew, lovingly painting delicate eggs a la Martha Stewart, and crafting an Easter bonnet just for fun, I have done nothing. I did drop a few not so subtle hints to loved ones that I am very fond of Cadbury’s Caramilk eggs, but that is the extent of my Easter preparedness. Sadly it is somewhat akin to my crafty Christmas fantasies that also never seem to materialize.

In my defense, my potential crafty time was consumed with other Easter musings. I have spent an inordinate amount of time wondering why the Easter bunny is often depicted wearing a jaunty bow tie or vest but rarely wearing pants. If he is decked out for the holidays in a vest, why stop there? Did he forget about donning pants because his mind is on chocolate? Do the pants slow him down and get in the way of his hopping? Is the Easter bunny some sort of exhibitionist freak?

Of course, when I started looking for images of a pant-less Easter bunny I couldn’t find any. Now I am disturbed, wondering if I have somehow sexualized or sullied the innocent Easter bunny in my own mind and perhaps I won’t receive a single Cadbury’s egg as a result.