Driving about running errands the other day, I listened with my husband to a podcast he discovered. We enjoyed the banter between those hosts and laughed an inordinate amount over the thirty plus minutes of hilarity.
One story stood out. The mother of a young lady went to pick up the graduation cake arranged with their local Walmart. For some reason, that order was proclaimed lost.
Employees offered a much discounted, ready replacement. Confection decorated, they sent the contented lady on her way.
Fast forward to the party and cutting of said cake. The dessert turned out to be a sort of floor sample, if you will, the graduate slicing into a Styrofoam slab!
I would have found the mix-up hilarious.
Not these prima donnas. Mother and daughter burst into tears, the party proclaimed a disaster.
Now, let me tell you that promised story about my wedding day.
The historical local home turned bed and breakfast sported a lovely, deep and wide stone porch. That was where I arranged an intimate catered reception for attendees. I instructed my kind, elderly baker to set up her creation on the designated table outside.
She feared ants would be a problem and instead delivered our cake to the B&B owners’ kitchen. My well meaning father offered to carry the cake out following the ceremony. He had to traverse a long way through the entire large first floor, a daunting task. Our dear friend Phoenix thought it would be funny to jump out in front of him as a surprise.
Yes, Dad was surprised.
Phoenix startled him to the point he almost dropped the cake. It got smashed against his tuxedo sleeve and the nearby wall. My two dear sisters-in-law acted fast. One thought to empty some of my homemade satin roses of the birdseed meant for well wishers to shower us newlyweds. Together, the women camouflaged the worst damage.
If I’d spoken to the cake maker, I would have pleaded that she discount the unfounded fear of insect invasion. We could have stationed one of our nieces or nephews to keep watch, for that matter. Oh, well.
My new mother-in-law advised her youngest son not to inform his new wife of the minor disaster before our portraits were taken. And nobody fingered the culprit until decades later. They should have known I would not be angry. Life is too short.
And it’s a funny memory now if a bit disappointing on the day.
I’m happy to report our photographer thought to capture a photo inside that sunny back room. The image turned out better than hoped, cluttered countertops somehow kept in shadow. Good thing, too, because my husband never got a look at the cake until after the ceremony.
That photographer, by the way, was the dear man who I announced as having been recently hospitalized. I’m delighted to report he is now rehabilitating at home after diagnosis of a minor stroke.
Would you cry over a Styrofoam cake? And how did that woman not realize it didn’t weigh enough to be edible?