Had a fight with the ex about cake a couple of days ago.
Every year we fight about cake. It is utterly ridiculous.
I’m checking bakeries and then with the ex about the cake, and feeling frustrated. The margin of error is high and the risk of having the cake flung at my head in a temper tantrum equally so. The window within which the cake will be graciously tolerated is small.
The ‘ideal’ cake is difficult. It’s not even just about the flavour. No no, that’s far too simple. No icing, No chocolate, No marzipan, No cream, No cupcakes. It’s basically a long list of ‘don’ts’ and I’m supposed to navigate my way through.
“Look, if you’re going to make this cake thing a big deal, then just forget about it.”,
says the ex to me when I momentarily forget myself (stupid creature!) and hint at my frustration. (Last year I ‘forgot’ about the cake, and let me just say that turned into a big deal.)
That would be a perfectly fair and reasonable statement to make, if it hadn’t immediately followed this rather more tyrannical threat:
“I’m warning you now – If you don’t get me the right kind of cake, I’m going to be really upset…”
Gosh, no pressure then.
But not to worry.
I have ordered the minions to shower the roads generously with rose and hibiscus petals. The ex will then be carried, lounging delicately on a palanquin, about London. The minions will serve the ex haunches of roasted & basted chicken, followed by sweet white grapes that have been gently washed in mountain dew and have had their skin removed. The feasting is capped with a refreshing champagne and baby’s breath sorbet.
A procession of painted and decorated elephants and horses all with bells and cymbals jingling gaily on their feet follow the palanquin. A 100 strong marching band, will accompany them and will be playing a variety of Madonna and Kylie songs loudly and with gusto. After all the day the ex emerged from the womb demands celebration!
After the magnificence of this procession all the way down Angel and through Farringdon, the palanquin will finally reach St. Paul’s where there will be the usual ritual of the burning of incense and the blood-letting of a sacrificial snow-white lamb by a virgin maid. This will promptly be culminated in an orgy of bacchanalian excess of epic proportions.
Also I baked a cake.
My first cake ever. So domesticated of me no? (It was from a packet. Baby steps.)
It rose rather proudly. I’m quite pleased.
I have a singing candle to place on it’s bulging center.
Here, some photos.