I remember some kid at school asking me one day, “Isn’t your dad that cake guy?” and I said, “Yep.” I didn’t really get how he knew it, though. Turns out, that his brother was in my sister’s class and she had brought her teacher a fancy birthday cake that dad had made.
Laurie and I were famous for about two days–as daughters of “that cake guy.” It was lovely while it lasted.
Many years later, when I was married, with a couple of kids, Daddy called me and said, “Marie Osmond wants me to make her wedding cake.” I positively–ok, ok, nearly fainted dead away.
What you may not know, is that I’d always been a Donny fan and was, in fact, certain that if he’d been in his right mind–which he wasn’t–he would have married me…instead of whoever he actually married. So this was indeed big news.
Dad fussed and messed around in the bake shop for weeks, figuring and calculating how to make the most enormous cake he’d ever made before–because it’s what Marie wanted. I remember the day he was working on that bottom tier–biggest thing I’d ever seen–when somebody said, “Well, it’s pretty, but how are you going to fit it out the door?”
There he was, nearly finished with the thing and in fact, it wouldn’t, couldn’t possibly fit out the door.
Do you suppose it’s blasphemous to pray your guts out for a cake? I hope not, because that’s exactly what we did. As Dad and the guys lifted the ridiculous thing and headed to the door, we all whispered, “Please-please-please-please…” Then, as they started to tip it to the side, we crossed our fingers that it wouldn’t slide off the cake board and smash to the ground. We all chanted, “don’t let it slip…don’t let it slip…don’t let it slip.”