It's My Birthday Cake and I'll Cry if I Want To

I'd be remiss in recapping this year's birthday festivities if I didn't at least mention the four cake debacle. I'm definitely not a food snob. But when it comes to cake, I know exactly what I want--delicious white cake with a hint of almond, buttercream frosting, and no skimping on the frosting roses. You'd think this would be no problem, but each year my birthday cake causes a minor spat, a major headache, and perhaps a crocodile tear or two. It's just that I look forward to my birthday cake all year. Friends' birthday cakes don't scratch the itch. They have chocolate, or weird fruity fillings that taste like toothpaste, or Crisco frosting that congeals on the roof of your mouth. And don't get me started on cupcakes as an alternative to cake. I mean, come on. You can have cupcakes anytime. You only get birthday cake once a year.

 

My favorite cake is from a grocery store in Minneapolis

(see, I'm not a food snob). Okay, it's not exactly a birthday cake. It's a baby shower cake. The cake and frosting are heavenly, and each slice has a huge frosting baby bootie. If there were a birthday cake with a huge frosting rose on each slice, I could abandon the infamous "bootie cake." I order one each time I'm back in Minnesota and usually get a second one for the road. I've been known to keep the bootie cake box carefully on my lap for the entire 19-hour road trip from Minneapolis to D.C. 

This year the Wrangler ordered a lovely cake from a famous cake bakery a half hour away. It tasted like cherry cough syrup. (They used marzipan instead of almond flavoring. Too fancy.) In a desperate attempt to please, the Wrangler actually baked a cake. This man is a lot of things, but a baker he is not. I am certain he used a cornbread mix. He enlisted the help of my very dear friend, who brought over an Italian creme cake. It was a kind gesture, and I'm sure the dessert is yummy, but an Italian creme cake is not a birthday cake. Noting my crossed arms and scowl (oh, did I mention that I can be a diva?), the Wrangler made an eleventh-hour trip to the grocery store for one of those generic lard-and-sugar nightmares with confetti (confetti!) sprinkles instead of delicate buttercream roses. 

To make a long story longer, I still am waiting for my birthday cake. I asked the Wrangler if blogging about my birthday cake was too pedantic. He promptly and emphatically replied, "No," which surprised me--until he muttered something about how "people should know what I go through each year."