You can give me a lot of things, and I will be very gracious about all gifts, but when I get cake, I go koo koo. You know the rumor that men think about sex every 7 seconds. I think about cake that often. White cake. Chocolate cake. Cakes my mom used to bake. Cakes my friend bakingnotwriting has made. Cakes in the shape of a ballerina from my uncle’s bakery when I was a child. I keep a repository of cake images in my mind that I flip through all the time for no reason, other than I love me some cake.
When the Big Guy, the Little Dog, and I got back from our walk on the beach yesterday evening, there was a box sitting on our front porch from Williams Sonoma. Inside the box was this, from my cousin, and the card read “Happy Spring, Cake Fiend!”
“This is CAKE!” I screamed to the dog and man.
“No,” they both said, and then, the Big Guy broke off some of the back of the flower pot and we ate it. I broke off part of flower and ate it. In all my years of cakery, this cake takes the cake. It’s uber delicious and beautiful and looks like a spring bouquet. Amazing. Magical.
I immediately called my cousin.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
“Like” doesn’t adequately describe my emotion toward that cake. Covet. Love. Honor. Cherish – oh yeah, that something else like marriage.
Then, she said, “One time I sent one of these cakes to a friend and called to see how they liked it. They told me it was ‘chewy’ so I called Williams Sonoma and their customer service said, ‘Ask them if they ate the cardboard.'”
My cousin started laughing at this point. “I asked them,” she said, “and they admitted they had eaten the cardboard.”
I thought that was hilarious because even though the cake does bend reality, I don’t think I would eat cardboard. Okay, I did eat a flower and part of a pot, but cardboard? Okay, maybe if they iced it.