There was a cake. The intention behind the cake was good, pure, and kind. My niece was coming with her family for Thanksgiving, and her sixth birthday falls on or near Thanksgiving each year. My own grandma’s birthday was always circled by the holiday, and I know she sometimes felt lost in the shuffle. With that in mind, my intent was to ignore all Thanksgiving, and create a pink birthday suitable for a 6 year-old. Thanksgiving could take over the next day, but prior, everything would be pink, darlings!
The best of intentions, eh? I mean, the decorations were fine- the pink fluffy unicorn stuffed animal taking up most of the table was perfect, the plates, cups, cutlery, straws, all in shades of bismuth. I, carefully made the cake into six layers of rainbow, whipped up a batch of Mom’s buttercream, and layered that baby up on my favorite cake stand.
Using a star piping tip, I covered the cake in pink roses, and was putting the finishing touches on the trip around the bottom edge, when the ENTIRE CAKE TUMBLED FROM THE CAKE STAND, face down, onto the My Little Pony pink plastic tablecloth.
I gasped terrible enough that all my family ran into the dining room where I was working- and then they stood there, paralyzed, looking in horror at the mess. (what a great symbol for November as a whole, right?) I wanted to cry, but my brain was also simultaneously whirring as the silence broke and we all started laughing. There was nothing else to do.
Jeffrey got me the pizza-peel and we managed to flip it back over, scrape all he icing off, and make up batch #2. I used the first batch as a sort of spackle to stick all the layers and crumbling chunks back together. It wouldn’t be pretty when we cut into it, but I could probably salvage it- family was due later that night, and I didn’t want my niece to walk in to this monstrosity.
Two two cake mixes, four points of sugar, four sticks of butter (and I didn’t even swear, which is a miracle. Swearing is my comfort food) we had a repaired and serviceable cake.
She never knew.