Wednesday, 06 May 2009

• Piece of Cake, Schmiece of Cake.

  Today is my boyfriend's 22 birthday, and while is happy that everything is all about him for the day, he was also somewhat depressed. "I don't feel like a kid anymore. I'm not sure I want to grow up yet," he told me. I decided he could use a bit of cheering up. I do not agree with the song. Just because it is your birthday, you should not be allowed to cry, even if you want to. Cry tomorrow. Birthdays are for celebrating.

  I decided I would make him a cake instead of his mom getting one from the store as she has each year. Why I decided to do this, I'm not sure. I am, by no means, a Betty Crocker. I couldn't even be Betty Crocker's fifth-cousin twice removed. My most notable previous experience in the kitchen involved a bowl of Easy Mac, sans water, that blackened to a crisp in the microwave and forced the smoke detector to shrill.

  Still, I thought, this is something special, so I'll give it the good old college try.

  I went to the grocery store and purchased two circular pans, a box of yellow cake mix, a tub of whipped Vanilla frosting, and a tube of green decorating gel for the obligatory "Happy Birthday Kyle." I was feeling good as I walked up to the register, thinking that I could do this. Then, I reached into my purse, grabbed my wallet and realized I had left my money in the car. I ran outside, grabbed the cash and darted back to the line.

  I took the goods and left. As I'm driving home, I realized the cashier shorted me 10 dollars in change, so I made a U-turn and headed back to the store. Already, my confidence was fading. I wish I had taken this as a sign to go no further.

  Finally, I made it home and whipped up the batter. I poured the gooey goodness into the pans and set them in the oven for 35 minutes. They came out a perfect golden brown. "This looks delicious!" I thought to myself. I wondered why I had never really attempted baking earlier. I might have been good at it, deep down and with some practice.

  The cake cooled, and I surfed around Xanga and took a shower. I came back down ready for the best part of a cake...THE FROSTING. I opened the tub and the sweet scent of whipped Vanilla flooded through the air. Mmmmm. I whipped out the thing I use to frost a cake (what is that called...?) and started going. Then I realized it was probably better to frost the cake in the container I was actually going to be putting the cake in so that I wouldn't have to move it once it was frosted.

  I searched around the house for the round cake holder. I could not find the darn Tupperware plastic anywhere. I grabbed a plate thinking I could Saran wrap over top of it and all would be dandy. WRONG. Saran wrap, even with toothpicks sticking from the top of the cake is only good at wiping all the frosting away.

  Now, my cake was missing a huge glob of frosting in the dead center, and I had no where to put this cake. I started digging, somehow ending up in the garage, and what do you know? I FIND THE CAKE CONTAINER. I grab it and try to get the frosted cake into it. I thought a spatula would be a handy tool. Nope. All it did was rip up the bottom of my tasty confection.

  Out of frosting, I had to go back to the store to get enough to re-cover the top. I get home and realize I bought fluffy white instead of Vanilla. Oh well; I was tired and frustrated, so I slapped the mismatch on the cake. Then I cracked open the gel. I got through "Happy Birth" before the tube ran out. Why do they put no icing in those things? So, back to the store it was. I finally finished fixing the cake. It looked like crap. I don't even want to eat it. I don't even want to look at it. I'd rather it be in the garbage.

  Now, I know why people by cakes at the store.

  And, if I ever find the person who first used the phrase "piece of cake" to mean that something is easy, I'm going to kill him/her. CAKE IS NOT EASY.

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