Cake Is My Weakness: Part Two

     At 2am, I unmolded my second attempt at a giant cupcake for Buttercup’s birthday.  A beautifully formed confection waited for me to decorate it into a pink and white fantasy worthy of the fairiest of fairy princesses.  I was ecstatic that this cake looked like it might hold up, unlike its pitiful, gelatinous, gluey predecessor.  I dropped in the bed, exhausted but ready to give Buttercup a birthday to remember.  I got up the next morning and readied myself for a day of low-key, autism-friendly festivities, the highlight being my pink-sational centerpiece.  I rounded the corner to the kitchen and gasped at what lay before me.

     My naked cake had cracked.

     I don’t mean a hairline fracture or an unfortunate divot.  I mean a full-fledged, “watch your step please”, deep as the Grand Canyon, crackamundo crevice.  I decided right then that the god of crappy baking must be named Squidge-Bucket Jelly-Fart and he hates me.  I tried to apologize for whatever I had done to be so displeasing, but it was too late.  Squidge-Bucket Jelly-Fart had already cursed my cake with his lightning crack of fury.  As I surveyed the damage, The Yankee comes to the kitchen in search of something caffeinated.  “My cake!” I screeched, pointing at the chocolate disaster on the counter, “It’s ruined!”  He yawned, bleary-eyed and grumpy as ever.  “That’s nice.  Where’s the sugar spoon?”  I glared at him, “Don’t tempt me.”

     I stared at my disastrous, cracked cake, looking progressively sadder and more hideous by the minute.  I have no more boxes of cake mix.  I am out of eggs and cocoa powder so scratch baking is out of the question (not that I’m any good at it anyway).  We have to leave for Mom and Dad’s house in an hour.  I am out of options.  I plunk the lid on the cake carrier and grit my teeth.  I’ll think of something ... I have to. 

     We get to Mom and Dad’s, Buttercup blissfully unaware of the crackpot cake in the trunk and the crackpot mother in the front seat.  Dad, Moose and Red, Wolverine and Midge were already present and accounted for.  Mom would arrive later in the afternoon thanks to a no-husbands-allowed vacation she had enjoyed with a friend.  I left unpacking “Krakatoa” for last, and was not surprised to find Squidge-Bucket Jelly-Fart had deepened the Great Divide to the point the cake was now split in half.  Oh joy.  While Dad and The Yankee talked shop with Moose and Wolverine, Red and Midge tried not to laugh at my cursed attempt at baking.  I tried to laugh it off, “We shall overcome!  I have come armed with icing!”

     Why did I think this would work?

     Evidently, some bored person with a shrewd interest in making a fast buck off DIY bakers decided to sell squares of parchment paper as “easy to roll!” pastry bags in a box of 100.  I quickly discovered 100 is a requirement if you intend to be as tenacious as I am.  For almost an hour, I rolled, re-rolled, taped, glued, folded, wrinkled, and subsequently destroyed 95 squares of the slickest, most slippery paper ever marketed.  I would have had more success nailing cotton candy to a gelatin square.  Red waiting until she got outside before she laughed at me for calling parchment square #96 a “snortin sniveling frick turd moo moo head.” 

     I finally found one of Mom’s pastry bags, filled it with icing, and squeezed.  BOOM!!  The coupler gave way as icing and a decorating tip flew across the kitchen like a runaway balloon.

     I think I screamed a little.

     Finally, I managed to get a bit of cooperation from another one of Mom’s pastry bags.  I mixed electric pink and neon green icing to Buttercup’s exacting specifications.  With some creativity birthed from extreme desperation, I managed to turn the crackamundo cake of doom into a rock covered in a neon vine of electric pink flowers with a garden of beautiful flowers flowing from a crack in the “rock”.  I was sweaty, I had a headache, and I hoped I never saw another square of parchment as long as I lived.  Even so, I was thrilled at Buttercup’s smile and nearly wept as she said, “Oh Mama.  My flower so beautiful.”  Maybe it had been worth the effort after all.  I could breathe a sigh of relief. 

     “Hey Bert,” someone called out.  “How’d you get a pudding center in the middle of this cake?”

     Crap.

© Bertha Grizzly 2012.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Cake Is My Weakness: Part One

     Any mother worth her weight in dust bunnies is going to make an effort to see that her child has a very happy birthday.  I don’t mean live zoo animals at lavishly catered affairs costing more than an Ivy League semester.  I mean the small touches that celebrate another year of life with a treasured loved one.  When Buttercup’s birthday rolls around, I look forward to the small ways I can show her I am happy she got to be my little sidekick one more year.  I love all of it: making a “Happy Birthday” sign, picking out pretty napkins I know she will love, wrapping a gift with a sparkly bow … it’s fabulous, every bit of it.  Except the cake.  I can admit it: cake is my weakness.  But not eating it. 

      Hi, my name is Bertha and I can’t bake a cake worth a darn.

      Let me make one thing quite clear before I go any further.  I can cook.  I am an accomplished cook with many a dinner party, wedding, and catered event to my credit.  Aptitude is not the issue here.  It just so happens I am not a cake baker.  And it’s not like I haven’t tried.  Take last year, for instance.

      With Buttercup’s autism, I have to be careful not to hang too many decorations in too many different colors because she finds the busy-ness distracting and says it makes her ears “loud”.  Last year, I decided I would keep the decorations minimal, the guests limited to family, and make the cake the focal point of the table.  After she went to bed the night before the party, I mixed up a box of allegedly idiot-proof cake mix and poured the chocolatey goo into an allegedly easy giant cupcake mold.  My oven thermostat and the thermometer I  had put inside the oven both registered the perfect temperature, so I slid my confection into the oven.  The Yankee sniffed the air, “I don’t even like cake but that smells good for a boxed mix.”  I smiled and dreamed of the flower and candy encrusted masterpiece I would present the next day.  The timer went off to tell me it was time to check the cake’s doneness.  The toothpick came out dripping to I slid the pan back in the oven, after all, the instructions had indicated a 40-50 minute window of time.  At the 50 minute mark, the toothpick (yes, a new clean one) came out dripping.  The Yankee hung over my shoulder.  “That’s weird, Bert.  Are you sure it said 40-50 minutes at 350?”  I huffed, exasperated.  “Yes, I’m sure.  Read for yourself.”  The new, clean toothpicks dripped at 60, 70, 80, 90, 100, 110, and 125 minutes.  At 130 minutes, the edges were beginning to turn an unattractive molasses hue. 

      I brought the heated pool of lava to the counter and let it cool the requisite hour.  As I warily unmolded my doubtful cake, the center jiggled like a nightmarish gelatin mold of childhood Christmas horror at my other grandma’s house.  I grit my teeth and said the dirtiest words I could muster.  “This frickin fruitin stupid pile of sugar-laden moo moo crud buckets!  You’re a flitter-flicker ninny-noodle chuckle snort!  Curse you oven of doom and double curse you snardin-gobble-dinger cake pile!!!”  The Yankee laughs, “Oh, my ears are burning.”  I flash him the eyes of death as he chuckles a hasty retreat to another part of the house. 

      My gelatinous flop of a cake, and the unfortunate fact that it’s now past midnight, are not going to deter me from making a beautiful dessert for my Buttercup, so I pull out the old cookbook and start mixing.  A few eggs, some flour and cocoa powder later, I had another cake in the oven.  I crossed my fingers and prayed it would work.  At the 50 minute mark, I checked with yet another toothpick and squinted my eyes.  It came out clean.  I did a happy dance and let the cake cool. 

      Tomorrow, I would decorate the cake of Buttercup’s dreams.  Tomorrow, I would present her with a sugared representation of the sheer depths of a mother’s love.  It would be perfection.  It would be an unparalleled culinary achievement.

      It would be a disaster.

© Bertha Grizzly 2012.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Reflection

     Every year since I was 10, I have written a reflection on my birthday.  What I’ve learned throughout the year, what I hope to accomplish in the coming year, what I hope to improve about myself.  (To answer what you are thinking: Yes, I was a nerdy bookworm.  No, I didn’t have many friends.)  It’s a tradition I have kept up for many years, and this year is no different … except that I’m going to let you read it.

      Today is my birthday.  As I look around me, I realize the world looks no different than it did yesterday.  The leaves are changing colors, the construction guys are still patching that same stretch of road, Local Grocery still has chickens on sale.  Nothing is really any different, except for me.  I am a year older and, Lord willing, a year wiser.  This past year has been a learning experience.  After waking up one morning and realizing that I am the only one who can make me a writer, I finally took these thoughts I have been writing down and posted them on a blog.  I have built up a few loyal readers who faithfully sign in every Tuesday and Friday to see what odd take I have on the trite, the mundane, and the just plain stupid.  I have married couples, parents of autistic children, and fellow curmudgeons finding solace that they are not alone.  Funny how strangers on the Internet can feel more like a community than the people living next door to you, fighting the same weather, and paying the same taxes.  I don’t know their names, most of them, and I don’t know what they look like, but they connect with me.  They tell me their stories, encourage me in my writing, and send messages to my e-mail box that would otherwise be a haven for spammers.

      My international friends are from various parts of the world.  The United States, Russia, Netherlands, Iraq, Germany, the United Kingdom … the list goes on.  I find it interesting that someone in a country thousands of miles from my own would find the observations of a grouchy writer worthy of their time.  I have found myself thinking more and more about the people around me.  What are their stories, their takes on the trite, the mundane, the stupid?  It’s a fun mental exercise and a constant reminder that we are all connected in one way or another. 

      Throughout this year, I have solidified my belief that sometimes the best way to end a fight is with a shocking, unexpected bear hug.  It has become more real in my mind that some things are worth fighting for no matter how long it takes, while some things are best to let go.  I have learned that no one is going to take care of me but me and there’s no time like the present.  I have realized how deeply connected I am to my family, how unwaveringly loyal my friends are, and how very intensely I hate liver and leftovers.  I am becoming more sure of who I am and more sure of who I want to be.

      For this new year in my life, I will continue to carry myself as a writer.  I have been described as “Erma Bombeck having a drink with Archie Bunker and R. Lee Ermey”, and I realize what an awesome compliment that is.  I will continue to view the world through the “Bertha lenses” of my variety show brain.  I will give sincere, heartfelt compliments and encouragement to those around me and work on this seething intolerance for idiots that causes my heart to race and my teeth to itch.  I will stop worrying what other people think of me and start worrying about what mark I will leave on society.  I will take every opportunity to make someone laugh when they feel like crying and think when they are certain they have all the answers.  I will take the admiring eyes of my daughter as a challenge to do better every day of my life; the wisdom of my girlfriends as a reminder that sisterhood transcends age and genetics; and the teasing of my male friends as proof that God gave me awesomely insane brothers for preparatory reasons.

      I will no longer wish to be something I am not, but will strive for health and strength.  I will relish my curves and stop wishing for straight lines.  I will bask in the light of my friends’ accomplishments and thank them for allowing me to share in their joy.  I will give with gentle generosity and receive with humble thanksgiving.  I will think more deeply, laugh more freely, and love when it pains me.  And I will never, never give up.  

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.