Saturday mornings are for baking. And blaring a mix of Etta James and ELO. And slurping two cups of coffee while contemplating the perfect recipe.

I'd set out to make an Easter-themed something or other. This is... not that.

Not even close. No Peeps, no pastels, no bunny-shaped cake with licorice whiskers. (I know you know the one I'm talking about). But who am I to scrap a happy accident? Especially one involving banana cake and homemade peanut butter cups. Roll with it. Don't be scurred.

That's what Saturday mornings are for... kitchen adventures. (And by kitchen adventures, I mean a rotating combination of frog squats and spoonfuls of frosting while waiting for cupcakes to cool).

{Nutella Cloud Frosting via Sweetapolita}

{Banana Cupcakes via Willow Bird Baking}

It's the first day of spring. And the first day of my twenty-fourth year.

Ushered it in with a bitch of a thunderstorm that triggered a power outage that tripped the fire alarm that raged for an hour. Became a sad, soggy fire drill. Wearing nothing but pajamas and a scowl. Birthday bar was set real high. So of course celebration came in the form of a riveting day at the office.

Epic fail? Hardly. I've got a fiesta sandwich going. Did a little last weekend. Party bus, the world's greatest disco band, drunk-eating cake minus utensils. (One for the books, if you ask Van the Man). Will do a little more this weekend. Received a birthday serenade from the entire, spring-breaking Beta chapter of Sig Ep. (Thank you little brother). And still completely sugar-buzzed from the Tiff's. (If you can say no to warm cookies, you're a bigger person than me).

I don't feel older. I don't feel wiser. But I do feel incredibly loved... grateful... and apparently, sentimental.

Deep fried. Cash only. And Spanish for fat...

Brunch, bracketology and a couple loads of laundry became wine, sing-alongs to Sir Paul and a coconut cream donut drowned in chocolate. And maybe, just maybe, a dueling rendition of the über-classy "Pour Some Sugar on Me." Because what's more appropriate when waiting for donuts from an airstream trailer?

I scraped quarters from the bottom of my purse to pay for those hot, doughy pillows, knowing good and well I'd be cursing them the next morning when tugging on my skinny jeans - which (full disclosure) were promptly wadded up, tossed aside and replaced by the shift dress with no waistline.

Yes, Gourdough's will probably give you the sugars. Health nuts, you'd be better off eating a stick of butter, paper wrapper and all. But if you come to Austin and don't partake, you're living life dangerously unfulfilled. And if I can't convince you, the Mother Clucker will.

"You must have just gotten your eyebrows waxed."

"Come again?"

"Your eyebrows. They're all red."

A self-conscious hand flies to my forehead. Am I really being called out by a Subway sandwich artist? Can't a girl grab a footlong on wheat, mussy-haired and makeup-free? I'd just plucked them. But heck if I wanted to discuss it. I reach for my debit card, but Señor Sandwich isn't letting go.

"So where'd you get them waxed?"

"Excuse me?"

"Somewhere around here?"

"Yeah. Yeah, sure. That little nail place down the road."

A total lie. (Fibbing about tweezing. And all I wanted was lunch. And why is a dude asking about waxing?) My flustered ambiguity doesn't slow him down.

"How much did it cost?"

"Uh, twenty bucks?"

Pulling it out of my arse at this point... I'm pretty sure the line of six people behind me wants this conversation to end as badly as I do.

"Ah, pretty cheap. They did a decent job."

I yank my sandwich from the counter.

"Come back and see us."

How about never?

Never ever again.

A cupcake to ease the awkwardness. (Or to shove in the mouth of a bumbling idiot).

{Chocolate cake recipe via Crumbs & Cookies}

{Peanut butter buttercream recipe via Martha}

A couple of hours to kill before work this afternoon. (Got the Big 12 tourney to thank for that. Texas tips late). Wandered south to set up shop at Dolce Vita. Pro(s): free wi-fi, a porch, complimentary chocolate biscotti with every coffee. Con: the Banana Republic business slacks don't quite hack it here. (Allergic to business casual?) Sorry to offend you, hipster fro in your environmentally-conscious, woven-of-recycled-corn-husks shirt. I left my tortoise shell glasses sans lenses in the Prius. To set the scene further, the women next to me are debating natural child birth and the merits of breast milk in painstakingly meticulous detail. Mmmmm, this frothy latte... sure is tasty.

It is, without question, one of my favorite little spots.

And the first time you ask for a splash of steamed soy and one Splenda in a to-go cup, be prepared for the pretentious eyebrow raise that suggests, We are not Starbucks. Doctor your own beverage, plebian.

I call it, Hipster Salad. Strawberry, Almond, Goat Cheese. Yessir.

Hard to believe that chili bowl is not entirely invincible...

It's been a few years since we found out my (not so) little (anymore) brother has celiac disease. A fancy way of saying he can't eat gluten, to spare you the WebMD trip.

Allow me to play Alton Brown for two seconds...

Gluten is a protein composite, found in wheat and other grains (barley, rye, etc). It makes dough chewy. It thickens sauces and soups. And for Lance, it's... intestinal kryptonite. (I do hope you're not eating lunch).

It meant putting the kibosh on pizza and pancakes and hamburgers. That's pretty miserable news to a fifteen year-old kid. With a mom who bakes like it's her business (must be genetic), cookies and cakes were as commonplace on our kitchen counter as the coffee maker. Those had to go too.

I think he'd tell you adjusting and adhering to such a restrictive diet sucked. Hard. This was before Betty Crocker and big chain grocery stores latched onto the whole "gluten-free" movement. My mom became (still is) his dietetic angel. Scouring the web for gluten-free recipes... making special trips to health food stores... stocking up on strange, pricey ingredients (Xanthan gum and tapioca flour, anyone?) to make sure that if Lance wanted a brownie for dessert, he could have a brownie for dessert.

The kid was far from deprived. But I will say this - gluten-free products are rarely as tasty at their gluten-full counterparts. I've done the taste-testing legwork on this one, friends. I think it's a texture thing.

Fast forward to the here and now... all grown up and gone to college... Lance is doing just fine. (High five for Redbridge). He doesn't need his big sister to send him a box of goodies minus the gluten. The caf at his dorm has that covered. (Who says Sooners aren't nutritionally progressive?) But when I spied a giant bag of Pamela's Baking Mix on the tip-top shelf of the baking aisle at Target... I couldn't help it. I wanted to make that boy some cookies.

Snickerdoodle, his request.

Mixed up a batch in minutes. No exotic ingredients required. And by no means am I touting products, but his response after ripping into the package and tasting one this afternoon?

"DUDE the cookies are BOMB!!!!!!"

{El Recipe via Food.com}

Technology failed in my favor...

I got CAKE SHOOTERS to prove it.

(Cake-in-push-pop-form is a thing, you guys. Cupcakes are old hat).

But to what did I owe this sweet delivery on a nondescript Friday afternoon?

It started like this...

(Fun fact: my mom is a sucker for both emojis and a good deal).

You trying to make me fat, Ma?

She assured me she was not. That these were supposed to be for my birthday.

But that's weeks from now...

There's a story, she said. (I love when there's a story).

She saw them on Good Morning America. Had to have them. Hopped online... picked out the flavors... typed March 20th in the order form. But.... (I love when there's a but)... the computer got all glitchy and left out the zero and the customer service lady said, your shipment's arriving eighteen days early whether you like it or not.

And I wonder, has anyone in the history of anyone ever been mad about opening a glorious box full of cake-on-a-stick?

Happy Birthday Texas, you old fart.

Eighty-two degrees. One-hundred seventy-six years of independence. The ideal day for patio-sitting & Shiner-sipping. (And I don't even like beer).

I did my celebrating early... with street tacos and tequila and a whirlwind game of BINGO. Historically inappropriate, I suppose. Considering two out of the three are inherently Mexican. But you know what that says? No hard feelings, Mexico. No hay malos sentimientos.

P dot S... Can we talk about how my cousin now lives in the same city? Pretty great. She's going to teach me how to two-step. Viva la Lone Star.