Sometimes when you’re a really committed and perfectly sane
parent, you need to get out and do something just for yourself.
Sometimes when you’re a really committed and perfectly sane parent, you need to get out and do something just for yourself.
So, I got a brochure from the local recreation department and scanned the offerings, thinking maybe I would take a class. I looked for something where I could unleash my repressed creativity, enhance my personal growth and meet new people. But after I eliminated anything that required physical coordination or a concentration level longer than 15 seconds, cake decorating was the only class left.
My family looked surprised when I told them.
“After this class I’ll be able to custom make birthday cakes for the entire family,” I said to my daughter. “Someday, I’ll make your high school graduation cake, your wedding cake, your first job cake … ”
“My first job cake?”
I ignored her blank look. I suddenly couldn’t wait to get started.
The teacher introduced herself and passed out a syllabus on the first day of class. Then, just as I was beginning to relax and enjoy myself, she announced we’d need to bring a cake and confectionery frosting for every meeting. I thought she was kidding until she handed out the recipes.
On my way home I went to the store to stock up on the ingredients I would need to get through a six-week class: 10 pounds of flour, several dozen eggs, three different kinds of sugar, food coloring, and six tubs of lard for the frosting. As I stood in line, I started having flashbacks of my first pregnancy.
The next week it took me a while to decipher the cake recipe, because “sifting” was something I usually did through drawers. When I got to the class, I was relieved to learn our first project would be to spread the white frosting smoothly and evenly on the cake. When I was finished, my cake looked as smooth and even as an avalanche disaster site.
I brought it home to show my family.
“Great snow scene,” my son said. “If we put some red food coloring on it, maybe it could pass as a volcano, and I could use it at the science fair.” The sad thing is, he wasn’t trying to be funny. He was serious. The next week, we were supposed to learn how to make roses, so I had to bring pastel-colored frosting in my pastry bag. Unfortunately, the directions for making pink were written in the same secret code as the cake recipe and the nearest I could come was bright orange.
I arrived at class, grabbed my frosting bag, attached the appropriate tip, and tried to follow the directions. When I finished, I had made several orange lumps instead of flowers, and the cake looked like it had broken out with the chicken pox.
“What are those orange things?” my daughter asked. “Gross.”
The next week I didn’t have time to bake a cake, so I spread frosting on a chunk of Styrofoam I found in the garage. It would’ve worked great, but when I got to class I found out it was the day to do layer cakes and I had to cut the piece into two equal halves with a utensil as sharp as a butter knife. I ended up with one large rectangle and a smaller piece that sloped into a triangle.
I slathered the outside with white frosting, mounted the triangle on top of the larger piece, and decorated the corners with orange roses. When I got home I tossed the cake on the kitchen table.
“I quit,” I said. “The only thing I’ve learned how to make is a mess.”
“What do you mean?” my son said. “That’s a great looking boat. Can I play with it?”
“It’s a layer cake.” I glared at him.
But I figured the class wasn’t a total waste of time. At least I can custom make a birthday cake if my children ever have a party with a nautical theme. But, as my son flicked an orange frosting ball across the table and made a sound like a torpedo, I vowed that next time I wanted to get out of the house and meet new people, I’d take up aerobics.
