The Forsaken Cake

It came to me in a flash on Friday as I removed our daughter's birthday cake from the improvised cooling "rack". (Er, a pizza pan. It had holes! Holes let air through. Air cools things. What did I know?!)
I am terrible at most domestic activities. I can't sew. I don't have a crafty bone in my body. If I dare to iron, I actually iron wrinkles in to the clothes...and frankly, I can't create beautiful cookies or cakes like that one, over there (look left). I can cook and make a halfway decent presentation of it...as long as I don't have to do anything fancy with a knife to make...you know...fruits or vegetables into teeny, tiny sculptures. But crafty things and baking pretty things that you'd almost rather just photograph than eat? Ummm...no. Notsomuch.

I learned that a pizza pan, while having holes to let air through, does not, in fact, make a good cooling rack for a cake. Especially a moist cake. Cake, even when cool, apparently sticks to things. Which is, I told myself as I tried not to weep, probably why cooling racks are rather, well, like racks and not trays. Less stuff to stick to.

Yep, the top of my cake came off. [sigh]

But! Nothing frosting can't cover, yes? Weeeellll...um...no. I mean, yes, if you add a bottle of sprinkles. After surveying the damage to the cake, I frosted it. With the flat of a shinto knife because along with cooling racks, I also don't have a proper frosting thinger. I don't even know what it's technical name is. It's just...the frosting thinger. I noticed, almost straight away, that the cake was crumbling into the frosting. Like toast crumbs in butter (eeyeck).

I had to walk away and bang my head off of the wall. Party planning and me just aren't good friends. I start with grand ideas (like saving lots of money and going DIY) and realize when it's too late that I do not have a skill. At all.

In the end, it was covered over with sprinkles. You know, rather like toothpaste in thumb tack holes. A loved it because, well, it was a funfetti mess of a cake and she loves her sprinkles, but I knew. I knew that I'd also forgotten soda (don't drink it, didn't dawn on me), chips, and other sundries. M ran a lot of extra errands on Birthday Party Day.

But there was my cake. Most of my mommy friends are talented. Last year, one of them made her daughter a Little Mermaid cake. And it was beautiful. Of course, my cake was tasty (hard to (*#^% up instructions on the back of a box that only has 4 ingredients all told), but dammit...it was my reminder that I am just not cut out for the domestic diva-dom. I don't even have the right tools for it. Baking without the proper accessories is akin to changing the oil in a dirt bike with a mallet and water. It just won't work.

The fact that I even use a comparison like that should tell you what I'm probably better at, shouldn't it? The odd mommy out is how I feel whenever I attend other parties, for sure. I don't talk the talk...but when A asked for a motorcycle, I told her she could have one next year and I would teach her (and Daddy) how to ride.

So next year, I'll be sure to have the right tools for changing the oil in her PW50 AND for baking a damn cake.

How about you? Are you a domestic goddess or a dirty disaster?

Recipe for Disaster...Er...Pajama Picnic!

How to Throw the BEST Disaster Pajama Picnic Ever

Ingredients:
1 Bath (ensure tantrum for best effect)
1 toddler - or however many children still of tantrum-throwing age you can find/buy/steal (spouses count)
1 Spouse (see above)
Pajamas for everyone
Front Porch (Enclosed) - Ideal but not necessary
Food - All of the leftovers you can scrounge that aren't quite this side of manky just yet, and can be served cold. Condiments for impromptu finger painting a definite bonus

To Create:
1. Chase unruly toddler around the house, trying to cajole him/her/it with a bath using "Mommy's Special Soap" (no one needs to know that it's because you forgot to buy baby soap. Again.) and all of the toys he/she/it wants.

2. Lay down and weep.

3. Wrangle toddler into bath and behold! At this stage, if done correctly, he/she/it should have a complete tantrum/shit fit and demand that Daddy bathe him/her/it. Walk away relieved. For a minute.

4. While Daddy gives the bath, slap all of the food ingredients onto a plate, cut up some bread (a little stale for best results) and take it out to the front porch/designated picnic area.

5. Try to bribe toddler OUT of the tub with the picnic and groan when he/she/it demands that you, Mommy, finish the bath.

6. Tantrum. Oh. The kid too.

7. Dry toddler and allow them to pick their own PJ's. Wait for about 10 years before the final decision is made.

8. Tantrum.

9. Remind toddler that the picnic is ready and sigh hopelessly as you realize that your spouse is cleaning the cat box.

10. Behold! Picnic!! For best results, the toddler in question should take exactly one bite of every piece of food available...and place it back on the plate. Added bonus if said toddler tries to spoon mustard into his/her/it's mouth as the largest serving of anything.

11. Encourage spouse to put toddler to bed, then collapse and die.

Note: If step #11 doesn't yield one collapsed, dead mommy, you've done it wrong and should start over from the beginning.

The Domestic War and a Secret Weapon Unveiled

Do you know what I hate? Nooo, not that. No, not that either. Well, maybe that but…listen, it was a bloody rhetorical question so just pipe down and let me continue, will you? Sheesh.

I hate cleanser commercials. I do. I have an extra special hatred for any cleanser commercial that adds fake shiny sparkles to a bathroom or kitchen surface that has been swiped once by a brand new sponge held in a perfectly manicured hand…and OMG if there a “TING!” added somewhere in there, it’s enough to make me want to commit TV-a-cide. But generally speaking, I hate all cleanser commercials on a relatively equal basis.

The reason is quite simple really. They all LIE. Never once have I been able to manicure my hands and then take a fresh, new Scotch Brite, give a surface a quick spritz and swipe once and be done. Let’s also never mind the fact that no freshly cleaned surface of mine has ever sparkled and glinted or gone, “TING!” afterwards. Well, I say, “They All”, but what I really mean is, “All but one” and that (finally) brings me to the point of this post. Almost.