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             Birthday Cake

                                                                                                 Amanda Dill

     I was a bit surprised when my son, Ryan, and his cousin, Tanner, decided they were going to make me a birthday cake. I wasn't surprised because they wanted to make something to eat (especially cake) but because my birthday is three months away. Being the easy-going mom that I am, I decided to let them try it, just to see what they'd come up with. Since they're only five, I did have to stay right with them while they were ”working,” but I did my best not to interrupt or influence them.
     Things started off just fine. They asked for some pretty basic cake ingredients: flour, eggs, and milk. In lieu of flour, I gave them a boxed cake mix, which they insisted still needed measured. I reminded them how to measure the dry ingredients with plastic dry measuring cups (which they filled and leveled off expertly, only to clink them together with hearty cries of ”Cheers!” which sent floury dust flying). I then cracked the required number of eggs into bowls for the two of them to beat—which they did, but not before stabbing the yellow yolk blobs, grunting and shouting as if they were being attacked by the chilled globules of goo.
     The addition of the eggs—and the milk, about which they were adamant on measuring in dry measuring cups, despite my arguments on the superiority of the use of a wet measure cup for this purpose—proved to be a messy undertaking, since both boys insisted they should do the stirring. In the end, they settled for taking turns with an electric hand mixer—in hindsight, this was not the best thing to do, but at the time it seemed better than their idea of making mixing a battle of spoons. Once mixed, I (mistakenly) thought the cake batter would be ready for baking—but the boys had other ideas. “No!” they squealed. “We need more stuff to make the cake special!” I thought this was sweet, so I naively allowed them to choose a few “additions.” They had many items at their disposal, including (much to my dismay) the fridge, which was stocked with an assortment of goodies and leftovers from various meals served the previous week. The first thing they laid hands on was not entirely strange—a quarter of a bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips and a couple of chilled Reese's cups. A bit non-traditional, but not bad in combination with a plain white cake.
     After the chocolate, things got downright weird. Even my three-year-old son, Nathan, got tired of watching the previously entertaining progress of his brother and cousin. But that didn't stop them, no.
     Ryan found about a cup of shredded cheddar cheese and a few sausage links, which he stirred in, leaving the sausage whole. Tanner decided the cake needed fruit, so he added a banana, which was a bit overripe but otherwise okay, a few maraschino cherries, and grapes—about three purple ones, possibly with bits of stem still attached (at this point I didn't see why that would matter). Ryan included the contents of a nearly-empty bag of BBQ flavored potato chips and a small jar of sprinkles—some of which he saved for decoration. At this point, I suppose Tanner thought the cake needed a little Italian flavor, because he plopped a serving of spaghetti in the middle of the batter, insisting that it did not need to be stirred in.
     Now, I had my doubts that this little experiment would be anything more than a creative and messy way to get rid of some leftovers, but these courageous and inventive boys wanted to bake their creation. You can't decorate cake batter, according to them. (I disagree—the batter itself was quite colorful and...intriguing.) So, the masterpiece (or monsterpiece, as we affectionately dubbed the, erm, thing now resting on the counter) was baked, cooled, and removed from the 8x8 Pyrex dish—not a conventional cake-baking vessel to be sure, but I don't think that hurt it at all.
     During the (inadequate) cooling time of approximately twenty-five minutes, the boys gathered the items they deemed necessary for frosting and decorating their cake (well, my birthday cake, I suppose). Their collection included: the remainder of the sprinkles Ryan had added to the cake earlier, a half-empty jar of peanut butter (smooth, of course), and a few spare hamburger patties from Wednesday night's grilled dinner. The peanut butter served as the icing, the sprinkles fulfilled their usual job requirements as colorful decoration, and the hamburger patties became the canvases for ketchup and mustard portraits of the three of us. Tanner then wrote letters across the cake which Ryan assured him spelled out Congratulations, but which actually read C-U-G-A-R-T-E-S—which is close enough, I guess.
     Now, I thought this would be the end of this little project—but, of course, they insisted on tasting it. Ironically, this step required vanilla ice cream—perhaps to balance the flavor. Again, I had no idea what the thoughts behind their choices were—but I let them make them. I figured the worst case scenario would consist of nothing more than disgusted faces—and perhaps a bit of gagging. After all, none of the foods they put into the cake were bad on their own—just because it's sort of gross doesn't mean it's poison, right? I suppose this isn't far from the truth, since both boys ate at least four bites, insisting it was delicious,before the cake was relegated to the cake stand on the counter. Mutiny, I tell you. Though I'd normally try just about any culinary creation, this is one instance in which I'd push away my plate without trying what I've been offered. In fact, once Tanner goes home and my sons fall asleep, I intend to bury the monsterpiece in the backyard—you never know when things like this might come to life...or eat YOU to avenge itself.