You ever start something and then, about halfway through, realize that things are going HORRIBLY wrong? And yet still you solider on, hoping that it’ll get better even though there’s no snowball’s chance in hell?
That’s the story of me and my Boob Cake.
Let me just start by prefacing this story with the fact that I’m married to the most wonderful annoying, perfect and obnoxious man ever. He shall be known as Jethro, in honor of the immutable hottie that is Leroy Jethro Gibbs, Special Agent for NCIS, played by the still adorable Mark Harmon.
Not only do I have a jones for this silver-haired fox, but my husband has a Gibbs haircut which is a holdover from hubby’s A&M Corps days.
Plus, said hubby has sort of a man-crush on Gibbs, though he will never admit it.
Now, Jethro is picky when it comes to food. Like 5-year-old boy picky. You know how most of us keep our college-age diet when we get older? Jethro has kept his grade-school diet. Give him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, chicken fingers or macaroni and cheese and he is a happy camper. I, however, am not. One of the things I derive joy from is trying out new recipes and cuisines. And I’m not talking about strange culinary arts; I mean simple things like making my own mayonnaise or lasagna cooked in something other than a microwave. Things that normal people would like and appreciate being made homemade.
Nope, not Jethro.
Let’s take pimento cheese. I find the stuff vile; he eats it like it’ll give him superpowers. So I, being the dutiful bride that I am, find a fail-proof recipe from Kitchen Bitsch that I can make for him from scratch. No scary fake mayo or cheese made from oil here, just fresh ingredients and lots of love. Even I found it kinda tasty.
But what does Jethro do?
Eats a just little bit of it. And later, when I question the large tub of leftover handmade-with-love pimento cheese in the fridge, he confesses that he doesn’t like it as much as the other stuff.
The OTHER STUFF, meaning the orange-colored two steps removed from Crisco stuff. That stuff isn’t healthy…that stuff isn’t made with LOVE….
But this is the man that I married. And I must love him and not try to change him.
At least not in obvious overt ways that he’s aware of.
So, one night when Jethro was sick and passed out in bed, I decided to make him dessert. Instead of making him a strawberry tiramisu with hand-whipped vanilla cream, fresh strawberries and homemade lady fingers that I made for a previous boyfriend (and you thought they were only with me for my good looks) I made him his favorite; Box chocolate sheet cake, white frosting from a can and “nothing fancy.” (Which is Jethro-speak for “Don’t add shit to make it interesting for you and then get pissed when I’m not impressed.” We’ve been down this road before.)
While making this boring normal cake, I decided that I should decorate it with something fun because:
- He never said anything about fancy decorations.
- He’s not the boss of me.
- There may have been a three-quarter’s empty bottle of Pinot Grigio involved.
Because it was late and I did not have any real cake decorations, I decide to make Jethro a cake with his favorite thing in the world on it…boobs. (Again, Pinot Grigio was involved.)
Now, if you would like to re-create your own boob cake, it would go something like this.
- Take chocolate candy melts and melt them down, mixing in some white chocolate ones to get the right color. (What? I’m half-black, I wanted my husband’s boob cake to vaguely resemble my boobs.)
- Keeping mixing until you get the right color. Peek down your shirt occasionally to double-check.
- Decide to mess with it one more time.
- Burn the damn melts so that they are lumpy and gross.
- Drink some more wine.
- Make a new batch. Be more careful this time.
- Burn them again.
- Cuss and drink more wine.
- Mix again and finally get it right.
- Carefully spoon the melts onto the cake.
- Realize the candy is too hot and is melting the frosting.
- Cuss and drink more wine.
- Pull out wax paper and create the boobs on there.
- Spend too much time trying to get each circle of a boob to be perfectly symmetrical out of deep-seeded self-esteem issues.
- Realize that while they are fairly symmetrical, they are also lumpy and misshapen.
- Pour the last of the wine and stop caring.
- Make darker chocolate areolae.*
- Allow candy boobs to dry, as you sway and sing to Patty Griffin. And Boyz II Men. (God bless you, Pandora.)
- Place boobs on cake.
- Realize that they are missing nipples and you’ve burnt all the candy melts.
- Find a stale bag of M&M’s.
- Realize the brown M&M’s can’t be seen and will have to be pried off.
- Cuss and drink more wine.
- Use the red ones for nipples, as you curse the man for not making tan M&M’s anymore. (Those were my favorite as a child.)
- Realize when all is said and done, they still don’t really look like boobs.
- Finish your wine, mix some food coloring with frosting, write “BOOBS” in crazy serial killer strokes at the top of the cake and call it a night.
Did my Boob Cake magically cure my husband?
Did he look at the cake and become amused at my whimsical nature?
Instead, he wandered in the kitchen the next morning, looking like death warmed over, looked at the cake and said, “What the hell….oh. Boobs. Heh. Mmmm, cake,” and then cut himself a massive piece. Which is probably all the reverence that a box sheet cake with misshapen candy boobs deserves.
And as Jethro walked away, my poor sickly prince with his “not-magical-but-made-with-love-and-whimsy” cake, he turned back at me and said, “Hey. You didn’t do anything FANCY to it, did you?”
If I get 25 comments on this post, I will post a picture of the boob cake.
25 DIFFERENT people commenting. I know you, you cheaters…
*The title of this post was previously “Boobs.” It has been suggested on Twitter that the more appropriate title is “Bewbs.” I concur.
**Yes, according to Wikipedia, areolae is the plural of areola. This here is a high class blog.
*** Want the reveal? Go here.