AlphaFemale

"Did she have her own plate at that house?" Birdy asked me one evening as he was spooning his dinner into his mouth. Chelsea was happily seated in the kitchen doorway, tail thumping the carpet, anticipating the possibility of a crumb landing on the floor.

My husband doesn't leave crumbs.

My kids do.

Sometimes I think that's why Chelsea loves my children so much. They leave a trail of crumbs a mile wide in their wake.

My father-in-law thinks differently. He was "rasslin'" the boys awake one morning while he was in town hunting. Chelsea was helping. Until she thought Bob got too rough and firmly took his forearm in her mouth. She didn't' bite. She just made her intentions known. My babies, be careful.

I brought Chelsea home from my cousin's house. They have five children, the youngest developed allergies. Chelsea had to go.

I felt compelled to bring Chelsea home.

I'm pretty sure, with five kids, these people didn't have time to discipline a dog. I'd be willing to bet the farm. Chelsea had the run of their subdivision.

Chelsea loves to chase rodents. She chases rodents until she believes they disappear into a downspout. Chelsea then rips the downspout off the side of the house. Any house. Chelsea's not proud. She has a single-minded purpose that amazes me.

Chelsea loves to run. Chelsea will give any greyhound, worth it's salt, a run for the money. My money is on Chelsea.

Chelsea managed to slip out of the garage one day, totally unnoticed by my father or my husband. Twenty minutes later, I saw her across the valley from our house.

"Chelsea!!!" I hollered happily hoping that would work...for a switch.

Chelsea looked at me, one paw poised mid-air.

"Chelsea!!!!"

Chelsea looked over her shoulder, as if to ask, "Anyone back there named Chelsea?" Giving me but a glance before tearing off at break-neck speed into the creek running through the valley.

The same dog that dances around standing water in the yard.

Chelsea is bursting with euphoria. She's so happy, there are days I wonder if she'll explode with happiness. She's so happy, it's almost annoying.

Chelsea

is

so

flippin'

happy

.

When the garbage starts to get full, I pull it from the can, prop it in the corner and continue to cram it full of crap.

"Chelsea, NO!" Dillon yelled.

I went back into the kitchen, "Is she in the garbage?"

"She sat at the door and waited for you to leave. You walked around the corner and she hit the garbage. She's rotten, Mom."

You think?

I think she's the smartest one in the house.

I had the kitchen counters completely covered with ingredients this afternoon.

I have thumbs. This makes me The Alpha Female.

I walk upright. This, too, makes me The Alpha Female.

I know this.

Chelsea is forever proving to me that thumbs don't matter.

Four feet are better than two feet.

I was peeling and slicing potatoes. I had cheese to be sliced, ham to be diced. I had baking mix poured, sugar divided, eggs separated, apples soaking in lemon juice and sugar...I had a mess on my hands.

I diced the ham and headed for the laundry room, only to backtrack--I thought it a good idea to push the ham as far back on the counter as it would go...I was amazed when I re-entered the room only to find all my ingredients just as I had left them, dog lounging on the kitchen floor.

I mixed all my divided ingredients, whipped my meringue, and lined my cast iron skillet with apples. I was really excited about my upside down caramelized apple cake.

I don't know that I've ever caramelized anything.

I know I've never whipped egg whites and sugar.

I knew I could do this and I knew I could do it without having to call my Mom.

When the timer sounded, I pulled my cake from the oven, loosened the edges from the skillet, and let the cake cool on a wire rack. Because I had no platter, I flipped my cake onto a pizza pan. That's the upside down part. I left it on the counter to finish cooling.

I couldn't wait.

I

love

dessert

.

I won't argue, I'm an addict.

I know I have to quit.

But, I'm not quitting until I try this one last recipe.

I say that every week.

Just this one.

It'll be different this time, I swear.

I refuse to troll for recipes again this weekend.

I grab my camera and take pictures. I might just blog about this cake.

And how.

Really, who knew?

While waiting for the cake to cool, I play on the computer, toss laundry around, chat with my husband in the garage.

I came into the kitchen as Birdy was warming his dinner.

"Couldn't you wait?" I asked. There were two apples missing from the side of the cake.

"I haven't touched that yet."

Yeah, right.

I looked closer. The pecans around the apples were different.

I know, I have the pictures to prove it.

There are pecans on the counter. They weren't there before.

I know, I have the pictures to prove it.

I let Birdy finish his meal in peace, knowing there was something wrong.

I spin the pan around and cut myself a piece of cake from the other side...and Chelsea leaps to her feet.

Huh uh.

You did not.

"Wow, this is good. You want a piece now or after your shower?" I ask.

"After my shower."

"Okay..."

That rotten dog put her paws on my counter and helped herself to my cake. I could choke her.

See for yourself. I have posted the evidence for all the world to see.

Marley wasn't the world's worst dog. Chelsea is.

If I cut the cake in half, my husband will suspect I ate half of the cake by myself. This is no stretch, mind you, but it's not true. I'm just not sure I want him to know the dog got the first piece.

I'd like to think my upside down caramelized apple cake really is that good. Although I don't trust Chelsea's judgment. She's just as happy with the garbage; however, thumbs might help with opening the door...