The Saga of the Organic Cake Mix
There once was a girl who was called Situationgirl, and she got herself into a very interesting situation. Yup, that's me. This story is seriously funny, though I was pretty seriously worried as it was happening. Over the course of the SAYANDD party, I got to tell the story several times, and now find it quite hilarious myself.
I thought I'd have two cakes for A's party, because we were expecting a lot of people, and what's a party without cake? I bought them at work because it was easy and they were on sale, and they were organic. I thought we'd have one vanilla cake with chocolate icing and one chocolate cake with vanilla icing, but when I got to A's house at 8pm on a Wednesday night I found I had three icing mixes and only one cake batter. (Darn them boxes! They looked all alike!)
Well, I mixed up the one batter and shoved it in the oven, then rushed off to the nearest supermarket for a good old Pilsbury cake mix. Yay for the Dough Boy! I got back just in time to cake the organic cake out of the oven, it was perfect, it was golden, and it instantly deflated in the middle when I took it out. Pbbbbbbbbbbbbbbtht. Just like that. I swore.
You see, I am actually a decent cook. I can make a rather tolerable rhubarb pie without having a recipe, and I can make biscuits from scratch simply from memory. And A's party was the very next day, and I had just bought his present online that morning; it was being shipped and wouldn't arrive for a week. So, instead of having a present there, I wanted to have made two pretty cakes for people to eat. It's not like it was hard, they were from a mix, and I couldn't believe this deflated cake was so screwed up! “Well,” I thought, “Yay for the Dough Boy.” I mixed up the Pilsbury cake mix and put it in the oven. “I'll have one pretty cake, at least.”
Then I cleaned up the kitchen, because I knew we were having people over the next day, and I didn't want to leave out A's dirty coffee mugs or the George Foreman grill he only washes every week or so. I wiped down the counters and the stove top, and I swept the floor.
Now, I had the front door open and the fan on because I was trying to blow out all the heat from baking. I wanted the house to be cool, it was better for sleeping that way. It was about ten o'clock; A was still at his lodge meeting, he said it would run late, so I didn't expect him for at least two hours. (Indeed, it was very nearly one thirty before he did get home.) Anyhow, I thought I'd stand out on the deck for a few minutes, it was still cooler outside than in, and I had about ten minutes until the Pilsbury cake came out of the oven.
Well, it just so happens that A's deck door has a very simple lock mechanism, you have to lift up a little handle to pull a pin out of its hole. This isn't, of course, that difficult, but it also isn't difficult to have that handle stick in the upward position until you have closed the door again. In other words, I was locked out on the second floor deck by the screen door.
I swore again, perceiving instantly what had happened. I considered punching in the screen door, but decided against it for three reasons: 1) it wasn't my house, 2) A had spent enough money on paint and furniture, besides that, the house didn’t need any other repairs and we planned on making everything else last as long as possible, and 3) we were having people over tomorrow, there would be food and bugs, and I wanted to encourage the scarcity of the latter.
The neighbor's dogs came out and started barking at me. I thought for a moment that the neighbors might follow, and then I could persuade them to come in the already-open front door and let me in. I was wrong, they didn't come out, and eventually the dogs ignored me.
I began to worry about the cake. You see, I really really REALLY wanted a pretty cake for A’s party, and I was so pissed off about the first cake being a flop that I was willing to pretty much do anything in order to save my remaining cake. Now I had about five minutes until it had to come out of the oven. I contemplated my other options of escape: I had my phone clipped to my pocket, but whom could I call? Even if A answered his phone, he was still forty-five minutes’ drive away. I couldn’t call the police because I’m pretty sure they would think I was nuts, plus I didn’t live here. It was A’s house and they’d probably just advise me to punch in the screen door. I didn’t really know any of the neighbors beyond face-recognition, and I didn’t have their phone numbers anyway. There was no other choice but to climb over the edge and jump down.
I scouted for the best landing place. On the north and south sides of the deck are large grape vines with wide, glossy leaves and bundles of hard green grapes. They’re abundant, but not particularly strong. On the south side of the deck, at the base of one of the vines, is a flower bed with cinderblocks for a retaining wall. I didn’t want to chance hitting one of those. On the west side is the open expanse of the yard, but the cement patio underneath the deck extends out for a few feet, and I didn’t want to hit that either. Also, it looked to be the farthest distance down. On the north side, the yard slopes gently upward toward the front of the house, and there is about ten feet of grass between the cement patio and the neighbor’s fence. This seemed the most appealing.
My panic was rising. My cake! My cake that I had pinned all my hopes on! I only had a few minutes now. I took a big breath and climbed up over the railing. “Oh, my god,” I said aloud, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” I was thankful I was wearing jeans, and even though my shoes were slip-ons they were the kind that needs persuasion to let go of my foot. I tried to turn and face outward in order to jump down and, hopefully, land on my feet, but I couldn’t stand up straight enough. I didn’t want to face-plant, so I turned back around, and tried to lower myself down. At one point, I thought I’d wedged my foot firmly into some grape vines, but they gave way. Suddenly, I was hanging my by arms. My heart beat hard and fast. I thought I’d better just let go and hope I wasn’t too far above the ground. It turns out I wasn’t. I only dropped about two feet, and landed softly.
Not pausing to ponder the luck of my escape, I ran to the front door-still open-and inside to the kitchen; the timer was just going off. I pulled my cake out of the oven. Yay for the Dough Boy! My cake was perfect.
I did have to go back out to the yard later that evening, when I discovered my phone was missing, but I discovered it in the grass among the wreckage of a few minor grape branches. But, besides a few scratches and a twig I found in my jeans, no harm had come to me.
As the cakes cooled, I thawed out some frozen lasagna, and tried to calm myself down. When the cakes were ready, I iced them, and fell asleep. When A came home he woke me up, and we carried in a few more party supplies from his truck. Then we went to look at the cakes.
The Pilsbury one said “Second Annual Yay Aaron’s Not Dead Day - 8/10/06.” The organic one had a big frowny face over the sunken middle, and around the edges it said, in cursive yellow letters: “This Is the Last Time I Ever Buy Organic Cake Mix!”
I thought I'd have two cakes for A's party, because we were expecting a lot of people, and what's a party without cake? I bought them at work because it was easy and they were on sale, and they were organic. I thought we'd have one vanilla cake with chocolate icing and one chocolate cake with vanilla icing, but when I got to A's house at 8pm on a Wednesday night I found I had three icing mixes and only one cake batter. (Darn them boxes! They looked all alike!)
Well, I mixed up the one batter and shoved it in the oven, then rushed off to the nearest supermarket for a good old Pilsbury cake mix. Yay for the Dough Boy! I got back just in time to cake the organic cake out of the oven, it was perfect, it was golden, and it instantly deflated in the middle when I took it out. Pbbbbbbbbbbbbbbtht. Just like that. I swore.
You see, I am actually a decent cook. I can make a rather tolerable rhubarb pie without having a recipe, and I can make biscuits from scratch simply from memory. And A's party was the very next day, and I had just bought his present online that morning; it was being shipped and wouldn't arrive for a week. So, instead of having a present there, I wanted to have made two pretty cakes for people to eat. It's not like it was hard, they were from a mix, and I couldn't believe this deflated cake was so screwed up! “Well,” I thought, “Yay for the Dough Boy.” I mixed up the Pilsbury cake mix and put it in the oven. “I'll have one pretty cake, at least.”
Then I cleaned up the kitchen, because I knew we were having people over the next day, and I didn't want to leave out A's dirty coffee mugs or the George Foreman grill he only washes every week or so. I wiped down the counters and the stove top, and I swept the floor.
Now, I had the front door open and the fan on because I was trying to blow out all the heat from baking. I wanted the house to be cool, it was better for sleeping that way. It was about ten o'clock; A was still at his lodge meeting, he said it would run late, so I didn't expect him for at least two hours. (Indeed, it was very nearly one thirty before he did get home.) Anyhow, I thought I'd stand out on the deck for a few minutes, it was still cooler outside than in, and I had about ten minutes until the Pilsbury cake came out of the oven.
Well, it just so happens that A's deck door has a very simple lock mechanism, you have to lift up a little handle to pull a pin out of its hole. This isn't, of course, that difficult, but it also isn't difficult to have that handle stick in the upward position until you have closed the door again. In other words, I was locked out on the second floor deck by the screen door.
I swore again, perceiving instantly what had happened. I considered punching in the screen door, but decided against it for three reasons: 1) it wasn't my house, 2) A had spent enough money on paint and furniture, besides that, the house didn’t need any other repairs and we planned on making everything else last as long as possible, and 3) we were having people over tomorrow, there would be food and bugs, and I wanted to encourage the scarcity of the latter.
The neighbor's dogs came out and started barking at me. I thought for a moment that the neighbors might follow, and then I could persuade them to come in the already-open front door and let me in. I was wrong, they didn't come out, and eventually the dogs ignored me.
I began to worry about the cake. You see, I really really REALLY wanted a pretty cake for A’s party, and I was so pissed off about the first cake being a flop that I was willing to pretty much do anything in order to save my remaining cake. Now I had about five minutes until it had to come out of the oven. I contemplated my other options of escape: I had my phone clipped to my pocket, but whom could I call? Even if A answered his phone, he was still forty-five minutes’ drive away. I couldn’t call the police because I’m pretty sure they would think I was nuts, plus I didn’t live here. It was A’s house and they’d probably just advise me to punch in the screen door. I didn’t really know any of the neighbors beyond face-recognition, and I didn’t have their phone numbers anyway. There was no other choice but to climb over the edge and jump down.
I scouted for the best landing place. On the north and south sides of the deck are large grape vines with wide, glossy leaves and bundles of hard green grapes. They’re abundant, but not particularly strong. On the south side of the deck, at the base of one of the vines, is a flower bed with cinderblocks for a retaining wall. I didn’t want to chance hitting one of those. On the west side is the open expanse of the yard, but the cement patio underneath the deck extends out for a few feet, and I didn’t want to hit that either. Also, it looked to be the farthest distance down. On the north side, the yard slopes gently upward toward the front of the house, and there is about ten feet of grass between the cement patio and the neighbor’s fence. This seemed the most appealing.
My panic was rising. My cake! My cake that I had pinned all my hopes on! I only had a few minutes now. I took a big breath and climbed up over the railing. “Oh, my god,” I said aloud, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” I was thankful I was wearing jeans, and even though my shoes were slip-ons they were the kind that needs persuasion to let go of my foot. I tried to turn and face outward in order to jump down and, hopefully, land on my feet, but I couldn’t stand up straight enough. I didn’t want to face-plant, so I turned back around, and tried to lower myself down. At one point, I thought I’d wedged my foot firmly into some grape vines, but they gave way. Suddenly, I was hanging my by arms. My heart beat hard and fast. I thought I’d better just let go and hope I wasn’t too far above the ground. It turns out I wasn’t. I only dropped about two feet, and landed softly.
Not pausing to ponder the luck of my escape, I ran to the front door-still open-and inside to the kitchen; the timer was just going off. I pulled my cake out of the oven. Yay for the Dough Boy! My cake was perfect.
I did have to go back out to the yard later that evening, when I discovered my phone was missing, but I discovered it in the grass among the wreckage of a few minor grape branches. But, besides a few scratches and a twig I found in my jeans, no harm had come to me.
As the cakes cooled, I thawed out some frozen lasagna, and tried to calm myself down. When the cakes were ready, I iced them, and fell asleep. When A came home he woke me up, and we carried in a few more party supplies from his truck. Then we went to look at the cakes.
The Pilsbury one said “Second Annual Yay Aaron’s Not Dead Day - 8/10/06.” The organic one had a big frowny face over the sunken middle, and around the edges it said, in cursive yellow letters: “This Is the Last Time I Ever Buy Organic Cake Mix!”