Friday, February 20, 2009

A tale of coconut cake...

I love a particular kind of coconut cake that my mom has made for years. I made it for the first time for David's birthday when we were first dating. I was not an experienced cook, and it took me forever, especially the baking layers and cutting them in half part. Poor David was being driven around our tiny college town by a friend of mine that he didn't know well so that I could finish the surprise. Finally, it was done. I was sooo proud. He came into his house, blew out his candles, and watched as a generous slab of cake was placed before him. He dutifully nibbled it. It was then that I found out that he doesn't like coconut. End of sad story...

But... this means that I don't get one of my favorite cakes very often. So I asked Mom to make me one for my birthday this year. I went to my parents' Wednesday night through today, partly for a little r&r and partly for help with my toddler who has developed multiple personality disorder (big smiles and laughs... 2 seconds pass... heartbreaking wailing and throwing of blocks). Anyhoo... I happened to ask for this cake right before a major frozen coconut recall. Yup, that's right. Most stores only carry one brand of frozen coconut, and it was taken off the shelves.

My blessed mother, God rest her sainted soul, went to SIX stores looking for frozen coconut. She finally obtained it from Harris Teeter, which carries their own store brand. She was very proud of herself. I was realizing that I shouldn't have teased her in an email about how I'd be fine with it if she just bought a coconut and shredded it by hand for the cake. (David would not let me put a "just kidding" in the email; he's twisted like that.) But, long story short, I got my cake.

Unfortunately, I was unable to eat all of said cake while at their house. I may be pregnant, but I can't put down that much cake at one time. So Mom decided to send the whipped cream and coconut frosted cake home with me in a cooler. Problem. She couldn't get everything in the cooler without taking the plated cake out of the box she'd put it in. So she warned me to just carry the cooler into the house very carefully and put it back in the box before going in the fridge.

We get home in time for a late nap for Seth. I go out to the car to bring in the cooler. As I'm walking up the front steps, I trip and drop the cooler. It rolls over. 3 times. And I skinned my hands and wrists on the bricks catching myself (insert self-pitying whining). My precariously good mood was shot. I did salvage part of the cake. The red Igloo is a different story. Turns out that whipped cream likes cooler crevices. I went upstairs to lie down for a bit, pray, and stop seething.

I fell asleep and woke to find the husband that I haven't seen since Monday coming into the bedroom. We snuggled, and I told him my cake story and how it'd funkified our cooler.

David replied, "You just gotta remember one important thing: It's not our cooler."

Now I remember why I married this man.

P.S. Mom, I will clean out the cooler. But I really needed that laugh.

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