Why do you always target a demographic audience of reasonably educated hipster doofuses, pedants, wild-eyed insomniacs, and Ayn Rand fans? Why do you never seek to express views pertinent to bored middle-aged housewives from Bentleigh? Why?!
Marjorie Wimple, Bentleigh.
Well firstly, Marjorie, if the plural of 'doofus' isn't 'doofii', it should be. Secondly, your wish is granted! House-fraus of Melbourne town, throw down your macrame, put away that mop - it's cake bakin' time! (Anyone else is welcome to join in the fun, too, so long as they promise no lawsuits will be forthcoming)
Now, a word of explanation before we start commencing to begin: my mother is a Cajun mulatto, descendant of a long line of vodoun priests who learned the black arts of ritual spicing deep in the swamps of N'Orleans; my father a scion of the gypsy kings of the Carpathian highlands, well versed in the ways of fortune-telling, knavery and cordon bleu. Fusion food being all the rage these days, I, their bastard offspring, have combined two ancient secret recipes handed down from both sides of the family. The resultant combination is the greatest gestalt gateau ever to grace your gullets:
Papa Gede's Traditional Black Mountain Sin Cake:
1. Slaughter a hog.
2. Grease a huge pan with fat from your freshly slaughtered hog.
3. Take plain flour, a knob of butter, and two emu eggs (fertilised for preference. Crunchy!). Mix 'em in a big ol' bowl.
4. Melt a pound of the bitterest, darkest chcolate you can find. Add to the bowl. If you're not stirring by now, better start.
5. Add 7 liquid oz. of congealed blood (from your now cooling pig). This acts as a fantastic binding agent. Keep stirring, I said!
6. Add half a cup of sugar.
7. Add the rest of the cup.
8. Add two shots of vodka. Drink the rest of the bottle as fast as you can. Drink! Stir!
9. Add a pinch of chilli powder, a pinch of rosemary, a scraping of mandrake. Also charcoal, saltpetre, sulfur to taste.
10. Turn the bowl widdershins thrice. Chant the shadow chant. Chant it backwards.
11. Sacrifice a black cockerel over the bowl with your favourite dagger, but be sure it is rune inscribed.
12. Dance a little dance.
13. Add the juice of half a lemon and pour the vile brew into your greased pan, all the while singing to ol' Mawu.
14. Stick the heads of three dead fish into the mix, staring upwards. This symbolises the plight of our people in the old country.
15. Invoke the deity of your choice and place the mixture in a pre-heated oven but do not, I stress, DO NOT place it in a wood fired oven, or any device using an open flame.
16. Best to leave the house for an hour or so, after updating your insurance.
Personally, I would not advise actually eating Papa Gede's Traditional Black Mountain Sin Cake (but share it with your guests, watch their faces), and Sterne hereby absolves itself of any and all untoward consequences that may occur by so doing. However, you will have had fun making it, if I am any judge, and that's the main thing. Happy baking, Marjorie!