There once was a Boy Mom Baker. One day, it all went wrong. And she lived happily ever after.
I LOVE to bake. Maybe it comes from the burning desire I have to feed people. I blame my great-grandma, “Nanny”. She constantly fed everyone until they were stuffed, and then acted like she would cry or make you “go cut a switch” for her to whip your a$$ with if you didn’t eat another plate of her food. But, her cooking was amaze-balls. So we happily ate ourselves into oblivion. Essentially, It’s her fault I have a baking problem.
Nothing makes me quite as excited as a girlie wedding cake. Drowning in Myth-busters, Perry the Platypus, and Mickey Mouse Clubhouse cakes for most of my early baking years has left me on edge. I tend to jump at the opportunity to cover anything with flowers or pink. So, when a friend asked me to make her daughter’s 9th birthday cake, I was all over it like white on rice in a glass of milk on a paper plate in a snowstorm.
Where the best of baker intentions went wrong…
My brain was spinning with different ideas. I trolled Pinterest. I finally settled on what I wanted to do. My friend had told me that white icing was fine, and maybe to add some fun sprinkles. Normally, I would have left well enough alone. But, this was a GIRL CAKE! All of my built up Boy Mom Baker frustrations came spilling out.
It was on like Donkey-Kong. Lucky for me, Buddy was grounded. So, rather than being banished to his bedroom, his punishment was keeping Tornado from destroying the world while I baked. A barricade was erected to prevent Clarabelle from entering the kitchen with her nasty furry self.
Not kidding. It happened.
I wiped down every surface in my kitchen to remove all the stray dog fur. I lint-rolled my entire body. Twice. Trust me, it’s necessary.
Do you want any of that up in your birthday cake? I didn’t think so. As I was saying…
I busted out the pink gel food coloring, which is sadly neglected in this house. Powdered sugar was flying. Sprinkles were covering the floor. Clarabelle was losing her mind seeing the floor covered in edible things that she couldn’t get to. I was in my happy place, people. Torturing the dog was an added bonus.
Finally, it was perfect. A Unicorn/Barbie/Butterfly barfed all over it. Just what every almost 9-year-old girl wants their birthday cake to look like. I boxed it up, feeling pretty happy with myself. How awesome was I? I had even finished in time to sit for a few minutes before the cake was picked up. I sat down to turn on Dateline(I know, I have problems.) when I froze.
someone punch me. just knock me out. please. now.
“I used pink gel in the frosting. OH. MY. GOSH. Her daughter isn’t supposed to have red dye!”
I’m not even exaggerating. I sat there frozen like a statue for probably a good 10 seconds. I wanted to hide in the closet and not answer the door when she came to pick it up. Or just tell her that a leprechaun came and stole her daughter’s cake.
Luckily, I have friends who understand the struggle of “mom brain”. Hopefully her little girl isn’t too jazzed-up on red dye. It’s her party she can spaz if she wants to, right?! When she’s out of control, just send her over here. I deserve everything her temporarily hyperactive little body can dish out.
You can’t win them all, folks. Even when you think you killed it. Always remember to laugh at your idiotic mom moments. Because otherwise, you’ll just end up with an ulcer. Or four.