The Great Birthday Cake Disaster

The best laid plans of mice and men. I have lost the key maternal ability that keeps a parent sane – the ability to multitask. The cake batter was made and dinner was in the oven ready to do the old switcheroo. Somewhere between getting small people in the bath before dinner, taking it out of the oven and putting the cake in, I forgot to turn off the grill. An hour or so later I was left with a charred brick.

Caught on the brink between hysteria and tears I decided too hell with it. I went to bed setting the alarm for 4am. 4am came. 4am went. I decided to go to Fournos. Great.

Small girl aged 5: “Oh, Mommy, thank you for making my cake, I can’t wait, it’ll be the best one ever!”
Mommy poleaxed by guilt: “Of course, darling.”

Husband made quick getaway on school run after looking aghast at the kitchen. And Mummy started on the Great Birthday Cake Rescue. The cake tin is not functional and will have to be thrown away with the charred remains. AHA moment. Cupcakes. Whip out Nigella’s Fairy Cake recipe and to work. Why are there only elves for shoemakers? Mothers need them more. Someone should do something. Write a letter or something. Nigella Lawson is a Goddess. It’s official. She should be sanctified. Thanks to her I have produced 24 pink cupcakes in record time.

Time is now 08:45am and cannot find Tupperware containers for cupcake transportation. Throw muffins out of muffin casing and place cupcakes in, every lunchbox and ice cream container is brought in to use. Safely stowed in car, the Great Cupcake Transportation begins. Yikes! Almost out of petrol. Please, please, please last until I get there.

Whew. Cupcakes delivered and en-route to work with 4 cupcakes to placate boss. Am shaking and on the brink of a breakdown. I need a Xanor. GAH! Multiple obscenities – I have pink icing all over the bottom of my dark blue dress and probably in my hair. I want to weep.

I have a black dot in permanent marker on the back of my hand placed there by husband to make me remember something. One was to forward him an email (forgot laptop charger at home) and I know with utter certainty there was something else, but cannot for the life of me remember and can’t bear to admit it and phone and ask.

Very long-suffering friend just called and had to listen to complete female breakdown containing a lot of weeping about pink icing. I can’t get the taste out of my mouth or the placatory and condescending stare of the school receptionist out of my head. If I never see a pink cupcake again it will be too damn soon.

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