The cake

When my friend Amy walked into The Sweet Shop* that day, she stepped with the confident mien of one who knew from experience how great these gals’ cakes were. She’d ordered two before. The little mom-and-pop operation in downtown Meadville produces made-from-scratch, delectable chunks of sweetness, prettily custom-decorated. What could be better?

The Sweet Shop has two gals: the cake-gal, creator of aforesaid delectable chunks; and the not-cake-gal, creator of pastries and such. The latter had always referred Amy to the former to place her cake order.

Amy stepped up to the counter. “I’d like to order a birthday cake,” quoth she.

“Very well,” said the not-cake-gal, and pulled out a pen and pad. Amy cast an anxious glance around for the cake-gal, who was nowhere in sight. Well, maybe the not-cake-gal was branching out these days…

“I’d like to get a carrot cake, with raisins and nuts; and I’d like it to feed 35-40 people.”

“Alright,” said the gal, made a note of it, and without asking further questions straightened up and prepared to conclude the order.

“Uh,” said Amy quickly. “I’d like it to be blue…”

“You want a blue cake??”

“No. I want it to be IN blue, like the decorations and trimming.”

“Oh. Okay,” and after jotting that down, she once again she laid aside her pen and turned to the cash register.

“I want it to say ‘Happy 50th birthday, Merle,’ inserted Amy gently.

Pen was resumed. Message was duly noted. Transaction was completed, money changed hands, and Amy retired from the Shop.

A week later, Amy drove by to pick up her cake. Her specially-ordered, custom-decorated cake from the cake-gal at The Sweet Shop.

She praises the Lord to this day that she did not open the box inside the Shop. Nudged by a passing angel, she waited until in the vehicle with her family, then cracked the lid.

And began to giggle.

“Oh my word!”

And shriek.

And point, and display.

“Guys, you gotta see this cake.”

I don’t know, but I think passersby assumed the Herr vehicle was inhabited by druggies, be-bopping to wild music. It rocked that much. Who would have guessed that such gusts, such gales, such breathless typhoons of laughter, could be elicited by an innocent chunk of sweet delectability?

A square white cake reposed in the box, pressed up against one side so its frosting flattened. One strip of blue frosting dollops straggled along the bottom edge, another waggled its way around the top edge. In the middle, in large ungainly script, lay the message as promised, “Happy 50th Birthday, Merle.” And in a barren corner, three frosting balloons of the same blue color, strings and all, clung forlornly together, silently deflating into ignominy.

And this was to have been the centerpiece, the crowning glory surrounded by Amy’s lavish cooking.

Amy tried to be mad. She tried. But she kept getting interrupted by chortles bubbling up from deep down. She couldn’t look at the cake without laughing. She couldn’t think of the cake without laughing.

And when, back at home, she separated confection from box, she realized that the cake was resting not on one square of cardboard, but on two: laid end to end and Scotch-taped together. The split between them coincided almost exactly with the center of the cake itself, which resulted in some interesting fulcrum effects in lifting it out, and split a large, sagging, irreparable crack into one side of the longsuffering chunk of delectability.

The only redeeming factor, Amy told her many guests that night, was that they probably all thought SHE made it. Awww, how sweet! She made him a cake!

Two moral lessons I derive from this business:

A)     When you live what you believe, like Amy, and support little local mom-and-pop operations, you must needs be prepared to pay good money for the occasional piece of crap. Birthday man Merle says “I hope you only paid like ten dollars for it maybe…?” and his wife just grins. “Uh-huh. Something like that.”

B)      Looks are deceiving.** The cake (inside) was to die for—rich, moist, and packed with goodness. I ate two pieces.


*The Sweet Shop is a fictitious name for a very real business in small-town Meadville, Pennsylvania.

**Looks are deceiving is a good old-fashioned slogan; we’re thinking of suggesting it to The Sweet Shop… maybe to print on their business cards?

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11 years ago

Oh please, I was hoping to find a picture at the bottom of the post. 🙂
Has she been back for more cakes since then?LOL

11 years ago

Oh stink! No photo?!! Thank you for the story though . . . at times like that, laughter is really usually the best option to take . . . all you can do IS laugh because it is so ridiculous. 😉

11 years ago

Shari, you are something else! Now we are dying of laughter READING about the Tragic Event. Leave it to me, the Non-Creative Practical Lady, to not even THINK of taking a picture until the cake was half eaten. Seriously, I wish more of us could think of our lives in story like this. So glad you’re my friend.

GrandmaKitty Brown
11 years ago

Oh, this is just TOO GOOD!! Poor Amy…. oh dear….

Diane Histand
11 years ago

What a humorous way to remind us that turning 50 might not be too bad. I hope I have something to laugh about that day…. My husband and I both see 50 this year. Merle is known to both my husband and I from years past, so enjoyed the post.
A picture of the cake would have been a treat 🙂

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