I have a sweet tooth, and that was all fine until the kids came along. Birthdays? Yup, they lick the bowl after the cake has gone into the oven. And then the spatula after the icing has gone onto the cake. I don’t get a finger in anymore. It’s all licked clean by the three kids.
Well, I can live with that because after they’ve gone to bed I can sneak in an extra slice of cake. Or two. The secret is to maintain the form of the cake. You can shrink it with a slither here and a slither there, even a big slice here and a big slice there. But don’t dare alter the form. They’ve got that memorized and they’ll sound the alarm in the morning.
“Hey, who’s been eating the cake?” my seven-year-old daughter will say.
There is another vital caution. You mustn’t leave it out because the dog will eat it. Yup, she’s done six or seven cakes, maybe more. Cut a gorgeous slice of chocolate cake and put a heaping of cream on top and retire to the living room with a hot cup of coffee and the silence of three sleeping children and by the time you’ve polished it off and returned for seconds the dog’s polished off the rest of the cake. She’ll be licking her chops and looking guiltily meek. “Sorrrryyy…”
She’s done two birthday cakes in the same day. Got the first before the blowing-out of the candles, while we were setting up the house for the party. This sent my wife in a whirlwind of activity to fix up another before the guests arrived. Then she did the second after we retired to the living room exhausted after a whirlwind of kids. I cursed. I fumed. I scrubbed the floor. She’d even eaten the candles and the Minnie Mouse decorations. I refused to take her out to do her business. Let her stomach get queasy, the fat bitch!
She held out…
And waited for the next birthday.
And I learned a few lessons. First, make sure you force your way into the jumble with the kids to lick the bowl and the utensils. Second, make sure you sneak in three slices after the kids have gone to bed or else it’ll be in the dog’s belly.
“Or you could just put it out of the dog’s reach, you fat bastard,” my wife told me.
Yeah, well, that’s a thought.