When Frit said she thought we should make Easter cake bites for the ladies on our visiting route for Church, I groaned inside. I hate making cake bites. They’re such a process and such a mess and it’s hard to make them look right and uniform. But, Frit rarely suggests projects like that so I figured I should go with it and be supportive.

Hindsight being 20/20, I should’ve told her it was a bad idea and that we should just buy something for our gals.

But instead we tromped to the store, picked up the cake mix, frosting, and candy melts. Then made the cake, mixed in the frosting, and rolled it into little balls to stick in the freezer overnight. We set our alarms for the next morning and I told her to make sure I was up so I could help her get it done before Church.

The next morning, when I finally got up after multiple snooze buttons (of course), she had already been downstairs for a while trying to coat them with the candy melts, having disregarded the fact that she was supposed to get me up. (And yes, I realize I’m a 33-year-old woman talking about needing her roommate to help her wake up in the morning. The ridiculousness is not lost on me.)

This is what greeted me:

Well that–and a very frustrated Frit. At this point, I began having flashbacks from my first experience with cake bites, which could easily be classified under symptoms of post-traumatic-stress. But, I had learned a few tricks from my first go around so I quick hopped in to help salvage what I could. She happily moved aside and became sous-chef.

I wanted to scream a few times. And I may have sworn a few times (maybe). Gosh, I hate making those things. But we finally finished. With minimal damage to the kitchen. And our friendship still intact.

Later on, after we’d delivered every box, to their very happy, very gracious recipients, I said, “We’re never making cake bites again.” To which, Frit quickly agreed.

Happy Easter! Hope your weekend was filled with lots of egg hunts, candy, and Jesus … and NOT cake bites.