(This might be a little confusing if you haven’t yet wandered around the articulate background stylings of parts one through four. Go on. I’ll wait.)
You know what Keith Urban likes more than songs about denim and tall ginger women?
Cake. Keith likes cake.
Now, because I’m such a diabolical diva in the kitchen department, I thought I’d make a cake especially for Keith.
He told me I could give you the recipe:
1. Recipe reference: Martha Stewart’s Baking Handbook – Chapter Two: Tarts, Turnovers, and Rectangular-Chinned Country Singers
Keith, meet Martha. Martha: Keith.
2. Ingredients: Eggs, Flour, Milk, Baking Powder, Butter, Sugar, Keith Urban’s Greatest Hits.
Don’t get your eggs too close to Keith, ladies. You’ll end up with a child with a stupid name.
3. Whisk sugar and butter together until light, fluffy, and rocketing up the charts in Nashville.
See, Keith? Some women can cook and act.
4. Crack in two eggs. If yolks break, write a song about it.
Preferably in the key of shut the f*ck up.
5. Whisk all remaining ingredients together, making sure to blend the ballads thoroughly with the country/rock fusion.
That silhouette ain’t getting any less impressive, Keith.
6. Pour mixture into a well greased 20cm cake tin, ensuring every shiny, gleaming corner gets a good dose of your soft, creamy butter. Yes. Yes. Right there.
I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.
7. Shove into a moderate oven for 35 minutes. Suppress urge to cackle with maniacal glee.
Ironically, still not hot, Keith.
8. Wait. When housemate arrives home and asks what smells good, change subject.
Mmmmmm. Burning hair.
9. Remove from oven and cool on a wire rack. The strings of a steel guitar soaked with a poor man’s tears will also do.
Full of carbs I’m afraid, Nicole. Have a carrot or some air or something.
10. Enjoy with a cuppa.
Mind the belt buckle doesn’t get stuck in your throat.
We’re not finished with you yet, Keith. You’re still essentially intact. I just have to figure out the best way to attach you to my car.
Stay tuned, y’all.