So I was minding my own business, going on about my life, when Matt’s birthday snuck up on me. I was proud of myself that I even remembered the sacred day in the first place because honestly, things like that slip my mind. Last year, I forgot it was my own birthday until I lurked onto Facebook and saw people congratulating me on surviving another year in life. So I remembered it was his birthday and contemplated plans as to how to make it spectacular. Buy him a stripper? Go far outside of my comfort zone when it comes to fornication? Offer to shovel the poo his dogs litter all over the back yard? Allow him to hang Nascar flags in the living room for a day? Use my own credit card instead of his? Invent a cake for him? Bingo. I decided to invent a cake for my beloved. I also did extensive research and enlightened him on all of the things that had happened around the world the day he was born, while resisting the urge to bring up the fact that he came out of his mother’s bajingo. I really wanted to but it IS his birthday, and when he irritates me on days that do not celebrate his birth, I torture him enough by reminding him that his parents literally have genitals and after five kids, apparently love to ravish each other. I have told my grandfather repeatedly that the elderly and parents have no business having genitals. He uses that statement to make some sort of horrid remark about his “sex life,” and I can’t tell if he’s joking because he literally never has verified his sinful claims. I have no idea why Jesus did not say it was a sin for grandparent’s to “do it.” Not only should that have been one of the ten commandments, “Though shalt not fornicate once though has grandchildren,” it should be its very own commandment, above all the others and highly feared. Anyway, I made Matt a list of all the things that happened on the day he was born and then Makayla and I tackled the invention of making a cake from scratch. When I called Makayla in to help me and told her I was going to bake a cake, she dramatically slapped her hand to her forehead, rolled her eyes, and said, “Oh dear Lord; please help us all.”
“That is not a nice thing to say,” I told her, “It isn’t nice to be sarcastic when you’re talking about God. Next time, say, “Oh dear fiddlesticks; please help us all.”
“This is going to be a disaster,” Makayla said, “but I’ll help you. Let me go get my apron.”
Brat.
“I am a real woman,” I told Matt, when he suggested I just go buy mix from the store, “Not only will I create a cake from scratch, along with the icing, I will craft this entire cake into the letter “M.”
Matt claimed I was being too ambitious.
The first hurdle Makayla and I faced was not having powdered sugar to make icing. So I googled away and found a recipe. While I was trying to figure out whether or not an 8 by 8 pan would work just as well as the 9 by 9 pan the recipe called for, I saw that nearly all recipes called for tartar or something.
“What is tartar!!!” I hollered to Matt, who apparently didn’t hear me because he didn’t give me an answer.
“I think that’s probably Spanish, Mommy,” Makayla said, “Like, it’s Spanish for tarter sauce or something.”
I grinned at her and we found a recipe that didn’t require tartar, whatever the crap that is, and I started making the icing. Now, the recipe specifically said to create the ingredients for the icing, which Makayla and I did perfectly, and let it sit on the stove, on medium heat, stirring occasionally, until it boiled, then to turn the heat down to low, and stir vigorously. Since I was lied to, and told I only had to stir the icing occasionally until it boiled, I started preparing to make the actual cake.
“What on earth does oil and flour a pan mean?” I asked Makayla, “You’d think one would work just as well as the other. And all the sugar this recipe is calling for seems like a hint that diabetes would be a great birthday present.”
Makayla stood there, looking at me, shaking her head, and then with an annoyed little jerk of the head, motioned towards the pot that was overflowing with icing that I thought I had total control over.
“Oh my gosh, what a nightmare,” I said, as I turned down the heat and vigorously stirred the icing since it was lumping up like play dough.
“Yeah Mommy, except you aren’t even dreaming. I bet you wish you were dreaming though,” Makayla offered.
“Well, if I was dreaming, I would have made a better dream than to let the icing boil over, that’s for sure. You stir this and try to get rid of the lumps while I get the cake ready. Don’t touch the hot part of the pot.”
We removed the pot from the stove onto an oven mitt and she assuredly stirred my mess.
“It’s like we’re chefs on that show, except I bet you’d be the one who gets yelled at,” she told me.
“I admit I struggle with baking and cooking,” I agreed.
“But you’re good at everything else, Mommy!” she said, “Everyone is different!”
Halfway through inventing my cake, I realized we didn’t have baking powder, only baking soda. I recalled a conversation with my grandma when I called her and asked if there really was a difference and she just laughed at me before telling me there was a huge difference. So I googled “alternatives for baking powder.” I found that by combining sour cream and baking soda, I could create my own version of baking powder. I made my creation and flicked it into my bowel of nearly made cake batter and said, “Bam! Eureka!”
Makayla was still stirring the icing and looked at me with a very serious look.
“You aren’t good at baking because you always mess up right in the middle,” she said, “why didn’t you make sure you had the real baking powder before you started?”
It is humiliating when a six year old out smarts you and I just said, “I should have. I should have made sure I had everything I needed before I started. But maybe it will be OK.”
We set the icing aside to cool and finished the invention of the cake batter and I scraped it into the pan, admiring how it literally looked like cake batter.
“Taste test,” I told Makayla, and instructed her to lick the goop off the spoon.
She tasted and two seconds later, while I had the camera ready to prove that I wasn’t a liar if my baking turned out to be edible, she gagged and made the most horrible face I have ever seen.
“Oh my gosh!” I yelped, and made her a glass of water, asking her if she was OK.
“That looked like it hurt!” I shrieked, horrified that an eggshell had scraped her throat, “Are you alright?”
“Mommy, that was AWFUL!” she wailed.
I tasted it myself and yelled, “What? Why? It’s terrible!” Makayla laughed hysterically, which I snapped a picture of because I felt at that moment, she was being mean and I wanted proof to show her she was a rude child when she turns sixteen and starts begging me for an open mind and gas money.
“Maybe it will get better if the yuck gets baked out,” I said hopefully.
I hollered for Matt to come taste the batter before I popped the cake in the oven and he made a face and said, “I think you’re sweet that you’re even trying to make a cake from scratch, baby.”
I wanted to slap him with my egg beater but am not a fan of domestic violence.
“It’s my JOB,” I told him, getting butt hurt that he thought my attempts at being domestic was only adorable, “I LOVE you. But do you think the cake will be OK?”
“Sweetie, it will probably not rise because of the stuff you put in it. It might burn though.”
“Like the cookies that looked like ear wax, huh?” I asked him, referring to my last attempt at baking for him, “Maybe it will totally explode in the oven. If my cake is going to be a disaster, I’d prefer it to be an entertaining one.”
He grabbed my face and kissed me and hugged me and told me love things and invented lies about, “Maybe it will be really good, baby. Maybe you invented something awesome.”
I am not a fan of being humored but I had rock hard man muscles around me and giant brown eyes that screamed, “I love you,” so I just grinned at him for a while.
Halfway through the cake being done, I discovered the icing was an utter disaster. Blast.
When the cake was done, we all hovered around it, staring into it as if it held all the secrets to the universe.
“What to y’all think?” I whispered to Makayla and Matt, glad Bubba was still napping so he wouldn’t try to devour the entire thing at once.
“It looks good,” Matt said.
I realized I was whispering and stood up a littler straighter to look more in control of the cake situation and said, “Makayla will be the taste tester.”
Makayla gagged after her initial taste test and declared it was the worst thing she had ever eaten but then said, “But at least you tried Mommy. If at first you do not succeed, all you do is try again.”
I popped a piece of cake into Matt’s mouth and he let me know it was crunchy and awful.
I tried a piece and it is a miracle I didn’t die of suffocation from dry heaving into Matt’s dying kitchen plants.
Shortly after the cake ordeal, Matt left for school and I sent him a text message that said, “Don’t forget the candles for your meatloaf cake. And get 24 individual ones, not the two and four. Taking the easy way out is offensive.”
So what if my attempts at making a real cake didn’t work and I am now going to put 24 candles into a cake shaped meatloaf? I’d like to do something fancy, like craft the loaf into the numbers two and four, or even better, the Eiffel Tower, but I think at some point, a girl has got to know her limits.
Hi! Stopping by from MBC. Great blog!
ReplyDeleteHave a nice day!