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Miss Deschamps was always a bit of a sassy girl. She'd hang upside down on the monkey bars so that her shirt would fall a little on its own revealing a young girl's blossoming chest or shirts a bit too racy for school. But she was a kind heart and good to her momma and poppa even though they got tired pretty quick with her little romantic antics with the boys and with the phone calls from school and even with the occasional call from the sheriff. When Dixie wasn't getting in to trouble, she'd spend some of her time in the kitchen making some mean baked goods. And there was also the other things she'd do upstairs in her room with a candle and some herbs she'd gathered from the next door farmer's field. But, to be honest, no one knew about those things. A few years ago, Dixie baked a particularly delicious cake for the county fair which stirred a bit of a ruckus. Anyone who ate even the smallest bite of the cake later felt flushed, woozy and a-bit-more-than-usual amoureux. You can better believe she swore all up, down and to the left and right that there was absolutely nothing unusual about her cake. It was made with old fashioned love and local ingredients, yessirree! But, again, there could have been a little something said over the oven when she was baking it and maybe a little something said over the pan before putting it in the oven and maybe a little something rubbed on the pan before pouring the cake batter in it. Of course, she would have never done anything harmful to the townsfolk. Only maybe a little something to loosen up their tight belts. And just because her initials were D-E-A-D, well, that didn't mean anything.
Some of the finest, ripest strawberries, the fluffiest and sweetest angel cake, the creamiest butter cream frosting and some davana to make the experience unique.
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