Now on to: Poppa's birthday, A Gehry Cake in Pictures
At about 9 am I went for a walk feeling extraordinarily ambitious to be out so early on a Saturday morning.
Ok, it was 9:30.
Ok, it was 10.
Damn!
When I returned home the supplies were laid out before me to make the Most Delicious DadBirthday Birthday Cake Ever. No matter that I couldn't locate the round pans; I laugh in the face of circular confections! I could use a rectangle. And one better: I could sculpt the cake into a new form!
A tower! Yes, a birthday tower!
I cut the cooling cake.
As I piled the pieces, family members began to suspect that I did not have a plan.
The sections got smaller and smaller.
"But there is frosting," I said, "to hold it together. Seriously, I've got an idea."
I did not have an idea. Or rather, this was not it:
Soon and very soon it became this:
By and by, my father stopped checking in on it. Carly's new boyfriend would be coming for the celebration. More shame on the family's tarnished culinary name? She jailed herself in fear:
What now? A new cake? There simply was not time. A time warp? There simply was not a car to get us there and back. A springform pan, some ice cream, and a Cold Stone ambition? It could not fail.
Wait. It could?
But it looks so...
Oh. I see.
But it tastes so...
I could always pitch the idea to Quaker Warmish Oatmeal Packets-of-Sickening-Liquid-y Flavor.
Well. One person's birthday is another person's opportunity to create something disgusting so that in the future they will never be entrusted with important tasks again.
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