My husband baked my first birthday cake when I was twenty-one.
When my brother was seven, my twin and I were born on his birthday. When we were two, my little brother was born...four birthday kids at the same time, probably could not happen again in any family. It was always a large celebration as we matured into adulthood.
Every year, Mom baked a huge cake in a pan, she special ordered. She left the cake in the pan, cut it in half, and in half again. Each corner was decorated with the taste of each our choice.
My husband and I were married when I was twenty. On August 9, 1965, he baked me my first birthday cake. I’m talking about a round, seven inches, two layer cake, that was baked and decorated for only me...not a square one large enough for four people to have l/4 sheet cake. It was cool!
I’m not complaining. It was fun all those years to share the large cake with my brothers, but Pat’s struggles to bake and create me his master piece was, indeed, a labor of love. He made it from scratch, not a cake mix. It was white. The family cakes we shared all those years were chocolate. Chocolate is always boys favorite.
It took him all day. He had one of my friends pick me up and take me shopping so it would be a real big surprise. She called him twice pretending it was some else, and I didn’t catch on to their plot. He told her to delay our trip a little longer. Finally, we got to go home, and you could smell the cakes’ aroma when as entered the door. The smell sure wanted you to skip the dinner bell.
“Happy birthday to you,” he sang when I entered the kitchen. He was so proud. Icing was dripping from the plate and perspiration was dripping from his face. But the cake was wonderful, and so was the surprise party he had planned.
