Cooking has always been an interesting activity for me. When I was younger, I prided myself on my great cooking skills. I loved being able to declare solidarity in at least one aspect of my life, because as a kid, that’s something that actually means something to you. “Putting on your big boy shoes,” as it were. I remember for my 12th birthday, I cooked my own birthday cake. I had my mom buy me the mix that I wanted, I looked up how to make the frosting online, and I painstakingly constructed my own cake. Not because my mom or dad couldn’t have just bought one for me, but I liked being able to look at a final product and claim total ownership over it. I mean, if I did that today it would be quite the novelty.
Anyway, I finished the birthday cake, put on all the decorations, sprinkles, frosting, the works. I remember that it was the white cake mix with the little colors throughout, the one that Pillsbury makes. I made gooey white frosting, I spread it with care over the top of the cake, I used the tube of frosting to write “Happy Birthday, Dave” to myself over the frosting that I had made from scratch. I used red frosting for that, because red was the “cool” color to use. I invite my friends at the time over for my cake and ice cream, as is customary, fully expecting them to reap the same benefits as I would from my cake-baking catharsis. My sixth grade friends come over, and it wasn’t one of the “big” type birthday parties where you invite your entire classroom, it was just my 3 best good friends and myself.
We gather round the table, my mom puts 12 candles into the cake, and we begin the grand old tradition of singing “Happy Birthday!” to me. There’s always that one part in the “Happy Birthday” song when it’s your birthday, and you have to sing “Happy birthday dear... meeeee!” Nobody wants to be the dickhead at age 12 who belts out that last “meee!” but it makes for an awkward situation nonetheless.
The song finishes, my three friends await with bated breath for my wish. They all are aware of the superstition regarding birthday wishes, that if I let slip what my wish is then it has absolutely no chance of coming true. So I heeded the unwritten law, thought up of a wish in my mind, and with a terrible gust I blew out the candles. If you’re wondering what I wished for, you are out of luck - I’m still hoping this one comes true. It’s just between me, myself, and I. Nice try, though!
Now comes the moment of truth - my friends have to try my homemade cake. My mother cuts the cake, and I await the crowd reaction as the pieces are doled out. Although I feigned a sense of calm, on the inside I remained as nervous as a man waiting at the gallows. And in the same way as the dead man walking, I felt that the stakes were life or death on the opinion of my peers.
I’m not sure if you’re aware of the food pallet of 6th graders, but as far as humans as a species, 6th graders are about as picky as they come. Hell, I didn’t have chicken in non-nugget form until I was almost an adult. Nonetheless, this fact did not bode well for me. As my first friend was handed his cake, young Jake did not even hesitate to comment “I hate frosting!” Strike one.
Although I emplored young Jake to give my cake a shot, to try and scrape off the frosting, he would not budge. Jake’s opinion (of course) caused a chain reaction amongst my uninformed peers, and a vast majority of my cake remained uneaten. Though this wasn’t my best birthday, it taught me a very valuable lesson. Jake Green sucks.
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