Once upon a time, back when I was but a girl, my mom agreed to make a wedding cake for someone. I don’t know who. It doesn’t matter.
She made the cake in our home, and loaded it up in the back of our station wagon to transport it to the reception hall and assemble it. My dad had to go along, I assume to help with the assembly, and therefore so did Laura and I.
That station wagon was the only car we ever owned growing up that had air conditioning, which was very good, since it was a very hot day. And then–
At a stoplight halfway to our destination, the car died. And when I say died, I mean died the death. It never moved again. And there we were, at an intersection, on a hot summer day, in a dead car, with frosting melting off the sides of the cake in the back.
It was not pretty.
I remember sitting in that hot car for half. of. forever. waiting for someone to come pick up my mom and the cakes. She had to take them to the reception, set them up, and attempt to make them look good in spite of the fact that half the frosting had turned to liquid and melted down the sides.
Finally a tow truck arrived, but this didn’t really make things better, since my dad and I and maybe my sister (I really can’t remember) had to ride in the front seat of the guy’s truck. My dad is 6’3″ and the tow truck driver was not exactly a fairy princess. It was hot, and smelly, and squished.
And I’m pretty sure that was the last time my mom ever made a wedding cake.
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