Easter Cake

During Lent, I give up lots of things: alcohol, sweets, pasta, bread – basically, any kind of simple carb, anything that winds up on my waist. I usually lose about ten pounds during the forty days of Lent, and put it all back on the week after. That’s not why I do it, to lose weight, but it’s a nice side effect. I like to think of it as my own personal forty days in the desert.

You can understand why after forty days I might be anxious to have a drink more potent than seltzer, or eat a piece of Easter candy, or celebrate with a piece of cake. Obvious, right!?! Okay, I get a little excited after forty sugarless days. You can only imagine how much stronger I feel about this after that special rite of Roman Catholic torture known as the Easter Vigil. After three hours of readings, RCIA baptisms, and confirmations, I want my slice of cake. No, I DEMAND my slice of cake.

That’s why I got so ticked off after the Vigil this year. My wife and I were standing in line waiting for our slices of cake when I witnessed a confectionary atrocity taking place. The woman slicing had mutilated a virgin corner of a double-layered chocolate cake with vanilla icing and overflowing flowers, and was about to hand me a crumbling semblance of a slice. It bore no resemblance to actual cake, resembling more the bombed-out remains of a postapocalyptic bakery.

Think I’m exaggerating? Come on, we all know someone who hasn’t a clue how to cut cake: the doddering grandparent, the well-meaning neighbor, the exuberant six-year-old. They think they’re helping out, but let’s face it, they ought to be forever banned, their pictures on the “Least Wanted” walls of bakeries throughout the land.

I leaned back and whispered to my wife, “Look at this lady. She hasn’t a clue.”

“She’s trying. Go easy on her.”

This Destroyer of Desserts placed another deformed sliver on a paper plate, the latest in a row of horrific experiments with a knife. She cut again, making another mess. I could see the direction this Easter Vigil Pastry-cide was heading. “I’m not getting stuck with that slice of cake,” I said. “There’s no way I’m eating that.”

“All right, all right, just don’t make a scene,” said my wife. Who me?

I was next. I could see what this butcher was about to do. Her knife, laden with the icing she had never wiped off – complete rookie mistake – was completing its assault on Castle Cake. I could see it coming. It was like it was happening in slow motion. The cake crumbled into multiple pieces, victim of a horrific massacre. She extended the plate in my direction.

“Why don’t you put that one aside for later?” I said. I thought if I couched my suggestion in a question she wouldn’t take offence.

“What?”

“Just put that one aside. Save it for later.”

“This is your slice, sir. There are people waiting.”

“I don’t want that slice.”

“You can take it or leave it,” said the Butcher of Batter.

“What?”

“Take it or leave it, Mister.”

“Who are you? The cake police?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“The cake-stapo? You’re slicing the cake, so suddenly you’re a big deal!”

“You know what, Mister? You’re not getting a piece,” she said. “I’m cutting you off.”

I was furious. “You can go- go- go to school and learn how to slice!” I said and walked away.

A minute later, my wife joined me in the corner where I sat sulking. “You really told her,” she said. “And thanks for not making a scene.”

“You’re welcome,” I said as the entire room glared at me.

She took a bite. “Too bad. It’s good cake.”

“Traitor,” I said. I sat there without cake for the remainder of the party, knowing I was in the right. What could I have done though? What can any of us do? How can we stop these serial slicers?