Compartments

Ancient History

Follow Me?

Instagram

Descriptions of a Poorly-Turned Out Chocolate Cake Made for a Great Kid

Yesterday was Ryley’s 15th birthday. As he’s grown older, his tastes have simplified from outlandish cartoon-inspired cake toppers to this year’s request: A simple chocolate cake. He briefly mentioned having a Colorado Driver’s Permit-shaped cake, but I gave him a shocked look and he quickly understood it would exceed my skill set. Plus, it’s not street legal. I’d like to see a police officer’s face when Ryley is pulled over with a cake in his lap. It was easily decided chocolate cake with chocolate frosting would be awesome.

I’ve made some cakes I’m rather proud of. I’ve had some duds. But I never thought a chocolate cake would almost make me cry. I think the only reason I didn’t weep was because as I frosted it, I amused myself with metaphors.

The frosting was adobe, glue, spackle, gilding, cement, mud, sludge, paste. Usually, the job of frosting is to complement the cake, be a platform for decorations, and to add textural interest. Yesterday, it’s job was to hold the cake together, like casing holds random pig parts seasoned with oregano in the shape of an Italian sausage.

The cake was dirt. It was the compact of dark brown eyeshadow of a salty veteran Vegas showgirl. It was the cowpie of a aged heifer.

But they tasted okay. Of course, I sampled the frosting for quality purposes. As a spackle, it was spectacular-tasting. The cake was good, too. I took a few of the chunks left behind in the pans and gobbled them angrily. The rest, I pressed into two 9-inch hockey pucks.

I positioned the ugly cake on my grey stand, looking like a Floridian sinkhole, minus the gators and Mickey Mouse.

Sigh. Do you know how hard it is to frost lumps of cake crumbs and gaping holes?

My husband called after receiving a very unhappy text from me regarding the aberration. So, Ryley’s other cake was born at the Target bakery, purchased by my husband after work. When you don’t order a cake, you are stuck with what they have. He called and gave me the rundown of what was available on a Wednesday evening: Florals, Denver Broncos, and whimsical winter themes.

Guess who was presented with 24 cupcakes pressed together to make a googly-eyed earmuff-wearing penguin?

When Ryley saw it, he laughed and wondered what was wrong with the cake I made. I showed it to him and he shrugged. Looked okay?

I saw disaster, he saw sugar baked in honor of him turning 15. I wanted to present him with something he’ll always remember and turned out producing something I’d rather forget. I wanted to make something as great as him. When I bake cakes for my kids on their birthdays, I hope to show them they inspire me. I love to make them smile, grant wishes, create memories.

I will forever strive to make a cake that matches how I feel about them, which might sound weird. There is no such cake on earth, though. God with sous-chef angels could make such a cake, but he hasn’t manifested in my kitchen wearing his “Bow to the Cook” apron.

I wrote “Ryley” in 4th-grade cursive on the penguin’s belly and “15” on the frosting feet. But I put the candles on the ugly cake. Ryley blew them out, except for one, in a mighty smiling blast. When we began to serve the cakes, he asked for the chocolate cake. I sliced a wedge that had a hole in it. My husband added two scoops of cookie dough ice cream. Ryley dove into it, declaring it so rich, so good, OMG, thank you mom.

The little ones chose the cupcakes because it was a rare chance to eat earmuffs. But everyone over Beatrix’s age wanted the cake I made. After I served them, I considered the penguin. I considered the chocolate cake. Ryley is a trustworthy kid. His opinion carries weight. I sawed off a wedge, asked for vanilla ice cream, and sat.

It was delicious. I could think of all kinds of metaphors and descriptions for things that are not pretty to look at—a disaster on the outside, but exceptional on the inside. You know, those glories reserved for inspirational posters hung in principal’s offices. But I was kinda busy swooning.

The screw-ups and shortcomings we all know and hate and love can hide pure, noble aspirations. It would have been a massive shame to toss that cake, as I considered doing. I would have eaten a penguin foot, probably the “5”, and been okay. Ryley wasn’t the only one who got gifts on his birthday.

15 Candles

January 23rd, 2014 | Tags: , , , , , | Category: Life, Little Ones | 4 comments

American cheese and a pillow left in a car

Today marks the 15th anniversary since I went into labor with our first son, Ryley. He wasn’t born this day. He waited until mid-morning January 22nd to finally scoot out and say hello to all of us in Room 12.

I suppose I remember today almost as fondly as tomorrow because I knew I was on the verge of meeting my little boy. We had been through a lot together, including a hospitalization Thanksgiving week due to a nasty respiratory infection and months of steroids that left me puffy and moon-faced. Still, he thrived and kicked and told me all about it. 15 years ago I spent the day at my parents’ house, doing laundry. Our apartment had a washer and dryer, but they were unreliable and far from our unit, so once a week I’d haul our dirties there and hang out. I remember sneezing a lot that day. Every sneeze made my toes curl because the sneezing caused contractions. That was new.

For dinner that night, our little family of three went to Sonic as contractions arrived with regularity. I ate a grilled cheese, tots, and chugged a vanilla Dr. Pepper. A year and a half later, I recreated this dinner in an attempt to go into labor with Sam. It did not work because uterine contractions and hormones are not affected by sad-sack sandwiches. Sonic’s grilled cheese appear to be made with an iron pressing down on two pieces of white bread with a slice of cheese slapped between. It was the last thing I ate before Ryley was placed in my arms. It’s turned out to be his food totem, too. Bread n’cheese, he swoons.

When I declared I was truly in labor—hie me to a hospital—we dropped Aidan off at my parents’. As we drove, I was afraid it was false labor and they’d send me home, just like they did countless times with Aidan. I refused to take my bag or pillow up to Labor and Delivery because I was positive they’d make me do the walk of shame outta there. It’s much, much worse when you have bags to haul out. When you don’t have bags, you can pretend you were casually dropping by at 9pm to drop off paperwork.

But they kept me and it was so quiet, they let me choose my room. I picked the one with a stained glass window, of course, plus it happened to be next door to the labor whirlpool. The room was painted with tropical trees and flowers and I spent hours in that tub waiting for Ryley. Waiting and waiting and waiting.

Having a baby is an extraordinary thing, but it has a prologue of ordinary moments. Like laundry and a splash of vanilla in a fizzy drink. Like American cheese and a pillow left in a car. Today is the 15th anniversary of Ryley’s prologue, let the chorus sing.

Ryley at age five, ten years ago. Ten years ago!?

January 21st, 2014 | Tags: , , , | Category: Life, Little Ones | One comment

Candies for Babies

Tommy stayed home from school today. He has some sort of odd rash, most likely brought on by unfortunate timing. I ran out of our usual sensitive skin dryer sheets and switched to an old box from the back of the shelf. This time of year, we have to use dryer sheets because the dry Colorado air creates killer static cling. Like, when you pry your laundry out of the dryer and separate socks from jeans, they crackle and hiss. The emergency dryer sheets smell prissy, like a wreath woven from the gossamer hair of a rose petal-adorned fairy. In June. Under a full moon. While singing a tune. I can’t think of anything itchier, unless she is riding a white green-eyed kitten.

Tommy woke this morning complaining of itching legs and feet and a killer headache. When I looked, I saw little hives and marks where he had obviously scratched. I gave him antihistamines and watched him scratch scratch scratch. He probably could have gone to school, but he was conking out and I didn’t want the rash to spread and alarm anyone. Plus, I’m not positive it’s the fault of the fairy kitten rodeo clothing I generated during the last few days.

He spent today crashed out on the couch watching “Mythbusters” on Netflix. He was watching the episode where they test the notion it’s easy to take candy from a baby. Teddy was in the periphery, half-watching when he noticed babies on screen. Teddy adores babies. He began to watch as Jamie and Adam gave candy to babies, then pulled the candy away (all the time measuring resistance). “Mommy! Look!” he pointed.

I looked and then looked back at him. His bottom lip was trembling and his eyes were filling with tears. I asked if he was sad about the guys taking candy from the baby on screen.

“Yes. It’s mean!”

Yet his mission in life is separating Ollie from his pacifier. Ollie is still fond of his coo-coo (our family name for pacifier). We are fine with him having it until around age 2, then it will go bye-bye. But Teddy has decided, on some random authority, Ollie shouldn’t use a coo-coo. He takes it, he hides it, and he seems to enjoy it. If we can’t find one, we have learned to ask Teddy. I believe this is born of jealousy. About the time Ollie was born, Teddy was being weaned off his coo-coo. A long standing resentment might have built.

“It’s mean!” we chide when Ollie howls, unplugged. We take his trains and cars to no avail. Teddy is on a mission to rid Ollie of coo-coos. He was surprisingly empathetic to random babies losing candy on TV, but unmoved by his own brother’s protesting tears.

I guess the answer is to get Ollie hooked on super-size Milky Way candy bars.

Wait. Did you think this was going to be one of those MommyBlog posts with a Grand Lesson in Life and Love?

It’s Friday.

Teddy, Chief of the Coo Coo Police

January 17th, 2014 | Tags: , , , , , | Category: Life | One comment
« Newer Entries  
  Older Entries »