Andy doesn’t usually make mistakes in the kitchen. True, there was that one cilantro-instead-of-parsley incident that ruined a pan of stuffing (served without taste-test at a huge holiday dinner at my parents’ home no less), but for the most part the kitchen is where he works magic. Every once in a while, though, things fall apart. Like this cake.
He was making the monthly birthday confection for my workplace when I heard a cry of ‘Shit!’ from the room I rarely frequent. Now, normally when people are upset, I do my best to avoid the situation and pretend I’m not around. (I can’t tell you how thankful I was to have not been in the office the day a co-worker had a dizzy spell and needed to be carted out by ambulance.) I’m simply not good or comfortable around distress. Being that Andy was working on something for the rest of us, I cautiously walked in and asked what happened, where I was greeted by this crumbling mess.
My heart went out to the guy, and I tried to be supportive, suggesting there might be way to salvage it – either remove a top layer, or just hide everything with two pounds of frosting. He was not having it, refusing to send in something that was falling apart like it was. “Let’s just buy a cake,” I ventured at 9:30 PM. “Where can you get a cake at this time?” was his dejected reply. Umm, how on earth would I know? See, this is why I don’t like to get involved – there are always more questions. I made one final suggestion that he do a simple, quick pan cake and call it a night, then left before there was more swearing.
A few hours later, he conjured another work of art, more brilliant and impressive than the first, and if it weren’t for a FaceBook S.O.S. no one would have been the wiser.
