Hutch's Birthday (a.k.a. The Cake)
It was Hutch’s birthday, and I wanted to get him something nice. But he’s really hard to shop for.
I got him a detective novel and a new flannel shirt. Then I realized he’d probably already read that novel (it was by somebody famous named Chandler or Candler or something), and would probably rather pick out his own shirt. I got him an air freshener for his car, and then I realized he’d just think that was a mean joke. (It was kinda funny.) So I got him a plant. An aloe vera plant. Looked like a little cactus with no spines. He’d like that.
Only thing is, a plant’s not much of a birthday present. I put a ribbon on it, but it was kinda hard to tie, and I kind of broke off one of the pieces of the plant. It got all sticky and oozy everywhere. I threw that part out and cleaned the mess up as best I could, rearranging the dirt and the ribbon so it wouldn’t look so lopsided. I left it on his desk on his birthday.
“Aw, that’s sweet,” he said when he saw it, a nice smile starting on his face. He turned it around. He looked up as Dobey walked past. “Captain, thank Rosie for me.”
“Rosie! That’s from me, Dodo!”
He gave me a sharp, unsmiling look. “You tie ribbons like a five-year-old? You pick out lopsided plants for birthday presents?”
“It broke when I was tying the ribbon. And it’s not tied that bad. Just had to try a couple times…” My voice trailed off under his critical expression.
“Last of the big spenders, huh, Starsk?” He pulled back his chair and sat down.
“If you had any idea how hard you are to shop for…”
“Forget it.” He waved a hand. “Don’t want to put you out.”
I fumed about that for a little while, but he was right: it did stink. I’d have to make it up to him. Find some way. After all, last time it was my birthday he got me a real nice sweater I’d been wanting. It was better than a dumb old plant.
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I paid for lunch. Even took him to that bean sprout place he likes. They don’t serve desert there. I wondered if anybody would get him a cake this year. He hadn’t been dating Mandy very long. Even if she knew it was his birthday, she didn’t seem like the baking type.
I’m not, either, but I picked up a mix and some candles on the way home, after I dropped him off at his place.
Carrot cake. That’s got to be sorta healthy, right? Got some orange icing, too.
It wasn’t too hard. It just called for some eggs, some oil, and some water. I had all that. Well, no oil, but I had butter and that was pretty much the same thing, right? I just packed some into a cup measure until it looked about right, then scraped it out. It didn’t mix very well, though. Kinda got lumpy with the flour mix. I smashed it together awhile, and added the water. Then the eggs, because I forgot to add them earlier. It looked kinda funny when I mixed it up. Like the eggs weren’t quite all mashed up, and the butter was still in little slimy lumps. I pressed on the lumps with a spoon. Then tried to squish them up with my fingers.
Good enough. It would probably even out with cooking, anyway. I got it into a pan-well, sort of a pan. It was a pizza dish, really, but I just spread it thinner.
The icing can didn’t say when to put that on, so to be on the safe side, I put a little on top of the cake before baking it. I could add the rest later, or leave it off if it looked right without it. Hutch probably didn’t like that much icing, anyway.
I sat down and waited for it to cook. At least I knew that would be all right. The instructions said to bake at 450 for forty minutes. I kept looking at my watch. Time went slow. I tasted the icing; it wasn’t bad. I tasted some more. I started to read the book I’d bought Hutch.
I looked up when I smelled smoke. What? I checked my watch, but it was only twenty minutes. I pulled the cake out of the oven. It was smoking and black on the edges. But the middle looked kinda wet still.
I put it to cool on the stove, and waved some smoke away, opened a window and coughed. I re-checked the package. Oh. It said 350 degrees. I guess I got that part wrong.
Well, the grocery store was still open. I guessed I could buy a cake instead. I ate a little more orange icing, and closed the book (it was kinda orange on the edges by now), and grabbed my jacket.
There was a knock on the door. I yanked it open. “Make it quick-oh.”
It was Hutch. Holding part of a huge, bright green birthday cake. He stood on my doorstep, frowning a little.
“Hi Hutch.”
“Guess what Mandy decided to buy me. It’s terrible. I gave half to my neighbors, ate a little to please her, and there’s still a lot left over. She had to go back on rotation, so I brought it right over. It’s probably about your speed in the sugar department. If you scrape the icing off, you might be able to stomach-” He looked past me, and sniffed. “Did you burn something?”
“It’s nothing, Hutch.” I tried to block him but he was already on the way in, unerringly moving towards the mess in the kitchen.
“What the- You were baking?” He cast me a shocked look. “What was it? The world’s sweetest pizza gone wrong? Ah.” He lifted the cake mix box. “Carrot cake. I didn’t know you liked carrot cake.” He put his green cake down and picked up the book from where I’d left it. “Or Chandler.” He cast me a long look.
I tried not to look as uncomfortable as I felt. “I like all sorts of cake.” _But I didn’t know I’d be so terrible at baking. Or that you’d come and catch me at this mess._ “And you probably already have that book, right?”
He smirked. “You bought me a book and liked it so much you decided to keep it? Starsk, I’m proud.” He sat down on the table and looked into the half-eaten icing jar. His amused expression grew. “And you already ate half the icing.”
“No, I didn’t. I only put a little on the cake ‘cuz I know you don’t like much-”
He gave me a long look, and burst out laughing. “The mystery deepens! You baked me a cake! Wow. I’m surprised you didn’t burn the place down.” He wiped tears from his eyes.
I frowned at him. Then sat down on a kitchen chair, defeated. “Yeah, well did I mention you’re really hard to shop for?” I picked up the book and slapped it down on the edge of the table so it made a loud noise. “And you already read the book, and probably woulda hated the shirt, and the plant stank…” I decided not to mention the air freshener. “Thought I could at least bake you a stupid cake.”
Hutch stopped laughing. He went over to the stove and looked at it. Shook his head and tsked. “Obviously, you can’t. Starsk, this is like modern art. Not a cake at all. It’s terrible.”
“Yeah, rub it in.”
“C’mon.” He turned around, and pulled on my arm till I stood up. “Let’s see it. Let’s see the shirt.”
I frowned at him. I went into the other room and pulled it out of a drawer and threw it at him. It was still wrapped in brown paper.
He caught it and pulled it open. He shook his head. “Starsk, this is perfect. Been wanting a shirt just like this.” He rubbed the yellow and brown fabric. It was kinda nice. At least I’d thought so when I picked it out. Soft, but seemed sturdy enough like it would last awhile. But maybe it was just a little bit brighter than anything he usually wears.
“Really?” I tried not to smile, but started to anyway.
“Yeah. I saw this exact shirt the other day. I remember thinking I ought to get a shirt like that. Thanks, buddy.” He cast me another smile. “Hey, you gonna eat that cake you burned?”
I scratched my head. “Thought I’d trash it.”
“No, don’t do that. There’s probably a few places where it’s not raw or burnt. I’d try cutting it up first to see. Here, I’ll do it.” He walked past me into the kitchen, gave me a pat on the arm as he passed.
I cut a piece of his green cake and ate it while he worked at the stove. It wasn’t too bad. I don’t know why he said it was too sweet. The green icing had a bit of an aftertaste. I scraped some of it off, licked my fingers absently. Picked the book up again and started paging through.
“Listen to this, Hutch. ‘I could see a long way. But not as far-‘”
“’Not as far as Velma had gone.’ I know, Starsk. I read the book.”
“Oh. You didn’t tell me you memorized it. Anyway, what kinda name is that? ‘Velma.’”
“Starsk, it was the 1950s. The character ‘Velma’ is in or around her thirties, which means she was born probably in the 20s. That was a perfectly normal name back then.”
“Yeah, but ’Velma!’”
“Starsk, the character of Velma is one of the most iconic femme fatales in all of fiction.”
“Heh! Say that three times fast.” I grinned.
He gave me a stern frown.
I cut myself another piece of the green cake. “This stuff isn’t bad.”
“You better have had supper. You’ll rot your guts out eating nothing but cake and icing. Here.” He brought a paper plate over with some squares on it. Squares of my cake. He’d rescued some!
“Hey, that doesn’t look half bad.” I reached for one.
“Starsky.” His voice was quiet, almost shocked.
I stopped. “What?”
He nodded at my hands. “You go wash them.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, ‘Mom.’”
I put the book down (it was kinda green on the edges now, too), and went into the bathroom. When I got back, he’d trashed some of the things on the table (like the cake mix box), had thrown the dishes into the sink, and was scrubbing at the stains on the book’s cover, a frown on his face.
“Starsky.” He held it up. “You ruined this.”
“What do you care? You didn’t want it anyway.” I scraped back a chair and sat. Then jumped up again. I ran into the other room.
“What?” said Hutch.
“Nothin’. Just forgot the candles.” I pulled ‘em out of my jacket pocket from where I’d left it draped over a chair, and put one on each cake square. Finally got ‘em all lit and stood back with a grin. “Make a wish.”
He cast me another look. “I’m too old for that.” But he blew out the candles anyway. We sat down to eat.
“What’d you wish for?”
He gave me another disapproving look, and took a bite. “Hm. These aren’t bad, Starsk. You used butter instead of oil, right?”
How did he know that? “Yeah.”
“I can taste the difference. Butter adds extra flavor.”
They were pretty good; not too lumpy after all.
We ate the six little squares of cake, and then he took his shirt and went home. He’s worn it a couple times since, and you know, I still don’t know if he actually likes it or is just being nice.
Next year I’ll get him a really good present, though. You see if I don’t.
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