Taking the Cake

Taking the Cake

"You and Scott have a meeting tonight...in an hour. Did you forget?" Pinky asked, her voice rising anxiously.
"I remembered. I just couldn't get away from work."
"Hi, Dad. Mom and I have started on the cake. She likes our idea for a hot air balloon cake." Scott said confidently. He had his Cub Scout shirt tucked into his levis, yellow scarf in place, and hair combed. He was ready for Troop Nine's Father-Son Cake Contest. It was a make’m-donate’m-auction’m-buy’m back deal. It kills so many birds with one stone. I wasn’t certain which of its lessons we were supposed to learn. But we were making a cake together and it would likely be some fun…which was good enough for me and Scott.
"The square cake is cooling on top of the stove. It is too hot to put on the counter. You can cut it to size," Pinky said.
"It's perfect." I said. Scott nodded his agreement. I touched the round cake tin at the front of the stove. It had cooled. "You get the aluminum foil. I'll get the plywood." I went to the garage and returned with a thin two foot square of plywood. Presto, we had our instant silver cake platter. I emptied the first layer from the round tin onto it to start our balloon. The round tin with the second layer of our balloon was on the stovetop cooling. I slathered on some frosting on the first layer in the middle of the platter. I could see some relief on Scott's face. We would have a cake.
We were in pretty good shape. Maybe. This cake turned serious. Scott radiated, "Do you think we could win? Dad, I want us to win." Personally I was just happy to have a cake to fulfill the obligation. My cub scout had some big expectations...peer pressure. I had been relieved to see the cake started, but now we had to win. Pinky's face was different, almost amused, it said, "Bet you wish you'd left work fifteen minutes earlier."
The timer buzzed. "That's the timer for the little square cake in the lower oven. Put it on the stove top to cool," Pinky said.
I followed that instruction. “Here’s the basket to hang under the balloon with those licorice whips. Put some of that blue icing on that one.” Scott began putting the blue icing on the lower layer of balloon.
"Turn the oven off. Will you?" asked Pinky from the next room.
I turned the knob till it clicked. "Roger on the oven."
About fifteen seconds passed. "Did you turn off the oven. I smell something..." Pinky appeared in the kitchen as I turned around and saw the stove's glowing front burner under the cooling cake tin, the one containing the top layer of the round cake. The cake was retracted from the sides of the tin, black and smoking. I had turned the burner control instead of the oven knob.
"You have ruined it." Pinky was angry. "And the oven's still on."
"Great place to cool the cake. Thanks for the suggestion." I was glaring at Pinky.
"Didn't you even look?" Her lips were tight.
"Oh, that's a big help. Who's at fault here? Let’s take some time to figure that out."
Scott was still putting frosting on the bottom layer. Tears welled up, no sound.
There was dead silence...for a few seconds. I could feel her desire to bury me in invective.
I took a deep breath, blew it out slowly through pursed lips. I gave her my beleaguered look. "Do we really want to fight about this now?" was on my face. She let us change tack.
"It'll be okay." I patted Scott on the shoulder. "We'll put the burned one on top and ice it up. It'll look fine."
Silent tears still.
"Really. It's going to be fine," I said.
Pinky had the cake out of the pan and had made a test cut. The top wasn't burned, but the bottom and sides were black. "I can cut the black stuff off. You can fill in with a lot of icing." She began the plastic surgery. She tasted a small piece from the center. "It tastes...still burned. More frosting."
I gave Scott a hug and said with a low voice, "Frosting is better than cake anyway. We have a winning idea with this balloon. The red licorice ropes to the balloon basket, will do it for us."
"It's going to look great. I must say that it is unique." Pinky was beginning to see the possibility.
As the tears dried up Scott sniffed, then smiled. I put the burned layer atop the round cake. Pinky took a toothpick and stuck it through the top layer into the lower one, and gave me several and said, "Keeps it from sliding."
I hustled to cover it with blue icing. "Get those red licorice whips and rope this big blue balloon to its basket." I was touching up the chocolate icing on the square cake. "The whole box." I pointed to the licorice. He went to work on it, and I stuck the tiny doll into the square cake...our passenger in the basket below the balloon. Pinky handed me the nozzle ended bag of red icing, and I squeezed out "Around the World" in red letters on the blue balloon.
"It looks fabulous." Pinky gave us a round of applause. Scott was beaming. Pinky had given him the rubber spatula to clean the rest of the icing from the bowl. He had none on the uniform, some in his mouth, and the rest on his face.
"Have a good time boys." She cleaned Scott's mouth with a sponge, and we headed for the pick up.
"I wonder how many other fathers are going crazy getting their cake done."
"Maybe some Moms too," Scott surmised.
I smiled and nodded.
At the school gym they had the six foot folding tables set up to display the cakes. A rotund lady with happy smile directed us to a spot for our cake. She was old enough to be Betty Crocker herself and had on a big button that said, "Judge."
"My! You boys and your dads have come up with some pretty fancy cakes."
It was true. There was a huge flat green cake decorated as a soccer field, a goal at each end, tiny figures for the opposing teams. There were several round layer cakes whose strength was their frosting decoration--one had a brown bear, one a train, and an airplane. There was one huge cake with an icing sculpture of a figure labeled Bilbo Baggins, which was my favorite. Many more cakes were coming to the tables. A few had a distinctively female touch--unfair competition. Some were obviously unassisted efforts: the top layers had slid, and Betty Crocker had repairs under way at the display table. There should have been a separate category for contestants unfamiliar with the toothpick trick. Dads trudged in, their eager sons in tow, anticipating public display and judging of their culinary efforts. Some were better than ours, but we would not be embarrassed. There was not great confidence on most faces.
Our leaders called the meeting to order and presented awards while Betty Crocker did her judging. About half way through the merit badge ceremonial, the gym door opened with a loud clank.
We all watched a lone dad walk the length of the gym conspicuously late, no cake, and no son. He turned in at our row, passed us and sat a few seats down, where his son had a hand on an empty seat. He wore scuffed work boots, low riding levis revealing a hint of plumber's butt at belt line, a tape measure on his belt, and a heavy uniform coat advertising Frostad Plumbing and Heating. His rough and blackened, his washed and empty hands hung down from the jacket.
"Hi Dad," the boy said eagerly.
"Hi, Jimmy." His dad grinned.
"Did you get us a cake?" Jimmy asked hopefully.
Our plumber shook his head. Pop had missed his cake deadline--no cake for the contest. He was in trouble. He hadn't made the bakery either.
I felt lucky to have a burned cake.
After the merit badge awards, they turned us loose to tour the cake table, let us see where the judge had put her ribbons. About half of the cakes got some kind of award. We got one of the big blue ribbons with a placard that said, "Most original." Scott had expected to win the grand prize. He looked satisfied, but not ecstatic. My relief was close to ecstasy.
"Will everybody please gather here at the first table?" It was our scoutmaster. Slowly we did as we had been asked, herded by Betty Crocker. "It is time to start our auction," he said, and started at the first cake.
Auction? Auction! I was stricken. They are going to sell our burned cake...to a friend. Meanwhile, the first cake was on the block and sold for eight dollars. My inner turmoil subsided, as one of the blue ribbon winners went for twelve dollars.
Down the row I heard an urgent voice. "Dad, you said we could buy a cake." It was Jimmy.
"It's too late." Our plumber was staring at his feet, paying the price again.
"You said..."
Even mumbling in a subdued golf voice he couldn’t say, " Before the contest, because I couldn’t cook it.” Instead, he had to say, "We'll see." Dad had seen the light, buy silence for the price of a cake. Anyway, it was a good cause.
"Dad, I want that balloon cake--the one with the red licorice. Please."
It made me proud of our cake. Two intervening cakes sold. They tipped our balloon so everyone could see it. Three or four people bid it right up to twelve dollars. "
"Dad?" Down our row Jimmy whispered.
"Fifteen dollars," the plumber bid, voice as stout and rough as his body.
I was mortified. Fifteen dollars for a burned cake. I had to buy it back.
"Twenty dollars," I said. I thought it would be just enough to stop the bidding. We faced off…two desperate men trying to cover our mistakes, to buy our way out.
"Twenty five dollars," our plumber boomed.
Silence. None of us, even him, could believe that he'd said it. Things were getting out of hand, but I really had no choice. That was way too much for a burned cake.
"Thirty Five." I spoke quickly to give the impression I was a maniac crazed for this cake. It worked.
"They made it, and they want it. We have to quit," he said to his son.
"It's the one I want."
"Jim, I can't." The rough voice was firm, but it had a plaintive quality.
"Okay." Jim's voice conveyed a combination of disappointed acceptance and understanding for his dad.
Going, going, gone...for thirty five dollars. My secret safe, I was the proud winner of our cinder cake.
We had really loosened up the bidding, and the remaining cakes went for fifteen to twenty dollars apiece. The scout leaders were just bubbling, beaming their satisfaction. What a haul. This cake auction stuff was terrific. “Let's do another one in the spring,” the scout master said.
As the meeting broke up, I tapped Jim on the shoulder.
"I want you to have this cake." I turned to his dad. "Hi, I'm Duff Walker, Scott's dad." We shook hands. "I had to buy our cake back. I burned the round cake. The square one is fine."
Jimmy smiled. "Thanks," he said. But his enthusiasm had waned.
"I'm flattered...that you liked our cake. Do you like balloons?"
Jim scarcely paid attention. "Nah."
" Why did..."
Jim brightened. "The licorice." He smiled at me. "I like red licorice." He looked up at his dad, “Can Chad ride home with us?” It was a contest of years past for him. I pulled the opened package of licorice whips from my parka pocket and gave them to Jimmy. He looked up, and his dad nodded. “Thanks!” he said. We all laughed. Scott and I turned for the door carrying our thirty-five dollar cake.