Eat it, Bitches!
Wait. Did you hear that? I have a TWO YEAR OLD. How was this allowed to happen? I mean, I remember having a baby, but I don't remember ordering a two year old. Well regardless of her growth and ever expanding hysterical vocabulary and adorable Shirley Temple esque-ness, I seem to fall deeper for that kid each and every second of each and every day. Except when she does this low growl thing when she doesn't get her way...then my ears start to bleed and I want to stick a fork in my eye, but the only fork I have handy is inevitably her toddler fork and frankly, it's too dull to really cause any permanent injury. Besides, even blind I would still be able to HEAR the low growl thing, so I guess that instinct isn't that well thought out. But I suppose instincts aren't really ever well thought out are they.
But I digress. Do you remember when I was a newlywed and I told you about my mixer? Yeah, well I conquered that bastard (again with the swearing) this weekend. I did it in honor of my baby's second birthday. So who's laughing now kitchenaid? Me. I'm laughing now (mainly because I am overly exhausted from the making of the cake, and delirious from the lack of sleep and sheer stress of making the cake)! Seriously, I made this you guys:
Myself. From scratch. It involved cocoa powder, finely chopped semisweet chocolate, coffee, flour and tears. Oh, so many tears. Plus, I pulled my eyebrows out almost completely and had to have a stress test on Monday morning, so that was an added bonus!
Two weeks before her birthday, I made the mistake of telling my family that I was going to make a Bert and Ernie cake for the baby's birthday. I even went so far as to buy the vintage Wilton cake pan from ebay. The response was totally supportive. If by supportive you mean laugh in your face at the mere suggestion of baking a cake, then quickly compose yourself when you realize I am not, in fact, making a joke, and then offering to order a "backup cake." Yeah. So once I said I was doing it out loud and had been disrespected like a west coast rapper, I knew there was no turning back.
So I baked my ass off people. It was for my little baby. I had to do it as a labor of love and a sign of my affection for her. But more importantly than lovingly making her second birthday cake, I wanted my family to have to BITE ME...errrr...I mean, bite into the moist chocolatiness of the best birthday cake ever.
It started out fine. I mixed and chopped, and sifted, and separated and brewed. The batter was heavenly and the baby got to enjoy the time honored tradition of licking the bowl (which frankly, is another post onto itself). But despite greasing the bejeebus out of the Bert and Ernie pan, the cake stuck and was ruined when I tried to get it out. And I can honestly say, with total sincerity, that it was one of the lowest points in my life. Right up there with the cancellation of West Wing. There were tears, and there was cursing. I'm talking serious, non sarcastic, drunk truck driver fighting a drunker sailor cursing. And the hope was gone and I wanted to end it all. Just call the bakery and order a rush cake. I was lower than Britney Spears circa 2008.
But then I heard the echoes of laughing of those that claim they love me and are related to me. And I dug deep y'all (see totally lower than Britney). Deep to the depths of my soul. And I pressed on. And I made the best cake that ever was made in the history of family parties in my family. And I was proud. Possibly prouder of myself than the day I passed the Bar Exam. Possibly prouder of myself than the day I graduated college. No definitely prouder than the day I graduated college, I mean, it wasn't really like a graduation since I just resumed going there in the fall for law school, but you catch my drift right?
As I pulled a muscle patting myself on the back for making the WORLD's BEST CAKE EVER...my mom reminded me that I still had to frost it. That woman can be cruel sometimes. But whatever, I wasn't going to let that get me down. How hard could that be right?
Well SIX hours later, hands stained from the coloring, fingers numb from the decorating bags, sweating, neck cramped from concentrating and hunching over the mother f-ing cake, and getting frosting into places that one should never have to deal with frosting in, the cake was done. IT WAS BRILLIANT! I almost woke the baby, long after sending her to bed, just to show her how much her mommy loved her.
I mean it was a MOMENT, a MO. MENT. My Moment. I just sat back and looked at my masterpiece. And promptly told my husband that I am never. under. any. circumstances. doing. that. again. Then I gave the kitchenaid mixer the finger and went to bed.
The next day, I soaked in the praise of all the naysayers who said I couldn't do it. I seriously reveled in the glory of them having to "EAT IT!" But then do you know what those so called family members wanted to do...what they had the audacity to say to me after all that hard work, after the epic universe shifting battle with the mixer and the blood sweat and tears that went into that cake?
THEY WANTED TO KNOW WHEN WE WERE CUTTING IT! Can you believe that crap? Cutting it! AS IF. I mean if you want to eat cake, I suggest you go out to your car and get that backup cake you ordered.
just kidding, I let them eat it, those thankless trolls!