The Fredösphere

The Little Womanösphere found a promising cake recipe for the Maharincess' birthday and the job of making it fell to me.  It was a hit.  You might want to take a look at it.  Today, I would like to draw your attention to the frosting.

First, let me stipulate that I am a frosting hater.  I loathe the stuff.  If Michael Moore made a documentary exposing frosting in all its perfidy, I would be there opening night, front and center.

Look again at the ingredients for the frosting.  Cream.  Chocolate.  That's it, people.  We're talking about an incredibly easy frosting to make.  Heat the cream.  Chop the chocolate.  Throw it in.  Stir.  Give it a condescending smirk (optional).  You're done.

This frosting was splendiferously transcendental.  It was the apotheosis of frostingness.  That Than Which None More Smooth & Creamy Can Be Conceived.

Men call it ganache.  I've noticed ganache sneaking into the middle-class food consciousness gradually over the last three or four years.  It's wonderful stuff.  So easy.  So obvious.  So my question is:  where has it been all my life?

Why were we for years, decades, fed a frosting made of fossilized blocks of sugar crystals?  A frosting so sweet, just the sight of a cake would give you a headache? 

My parents generation achieved many great things, but on the frosting question, they perpetrated an act of malpractice.  I'm angry.  Where's my lawyer?