Everything is ruined, I’m a poor excuse for a wife and I blame it all on baking being so damn stressful. Ok, so not all baking is stressful, there are some things (scones) which even I fail to screw up. Cakes though, hol-y eff. THE PRESSURE. My god, I just can’t handle it. This post comes to you as I watch Tom’s birthday ‘cake’ dripping over the sides of the ridiculously small pie dish I thought it would be fine in. There is 15 minutes left on the timer and I’m 90% sure it’s still liquid AF in the middle.

Birthday cakes are the worst aren’t they?? Not only are they so frickin sensitive that if you miss one step (or use the wrong equipment in my case) then you’re fucked. Then you end up feeling like a failure but there’s no time to be feeling sorry for yourself, oh no, you then have to face the person that the cake was for!

You can either be honest and try to pull the cute card by shoving your hideous attempt in their face and pulling a puppy dog face ooooor you can be really sneaky, buy a beautiful cake and try to pass it off as your own.

Thankfully for me, I have a secret weapon. Cream cheese icing bitches. And lots of it. My current plan is to smother my shame in this sweet sweet substance whereby creating something that at least tastes good even if it looks like shit.

Yes, it’s the thought that counts but what about the blood, sweat…ok well maybe not, that’s just gross but certainly tears that must go into every home made birthday cake. I feel so sorry for parents these days and the ridiculous standards impressed upon them by those evil perfect cakers of Instagram and Pinterest.

The meticulous crafting of your child’s favourite toy, super hero, Disney character or perhaps an elaborate rainbow unicorn cradling her unicorn baby is now expected of you.

Gone are the days of the classic round cake with some pretty candles on top. Now if it doesn’t resemble something then it ain’t worth eating. To be fair, I’m pretty sure my mum made me several ‘thing’ cakes out of the Australian Women’s Weekly cake book that all us kids of the 80’s had growing up. I still remember the castle cake she made me one year complete with upturned ice cream cones (i.e. turrets) that truly were the piece de la resistance.

Oh wait hold a sec, the timer is beeping at me – I just have to go check on my shame….

…I’m back. Realising as I was pouring into the too-small tin that there was no way all the mixture was going to fit, I had the brainwave of putting the rest into muffin tins. Sadly I didn’t have the foresight to either grease or only fill them three quarters full. Here we are ladies and gents, I present to you the entree if you will of this whole disaster:

If you’re wondering what the blobs are, those are the drips that came through from the rack above where my cake is still sitting, well undercooked for the record. Now I’m in the pickle of having to check every five minutes whether it’s done. I am like a paranoid helicopter mum and the cake is my precious child. What’s worse is that while I’m trying to do something nice for Tom I actually end up annoying the shit out of him as I faff about the kitchen, swearing profusely and berating myself with ‘if only’s’.

Well, there’s the strong smell of failure in the kitchen right about now so it’s time I pulled my shameful attempt at a cake out of the oven, in all it’s burnt on the top, soggy in the middle glory.  

All I can say is thank the lord for cream cheese icing. Maybe I’ll just serve him up a big bowl of that with some candles shoved in and file this whole effort in my #wifeoftheyear folder. Better living everyone!

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