Pass The Cake

For Thanksgiving today my older sister decided to bake a cake for my younger sister. Under most circumstances that is not a big deal but in this case, my younger sister is allergic to pretty much everything that makes cake exist. So my older sister had to find a way to make an eggless, wheat-less, dairy-less, and delicious-less dessert because my younger sister is always deprived of sweets.

The thought behind this was very nice. A kind gesture from an older sister to a younger, more food-deprived one. She really put some effort into it. My younger sister was excited to have dessert for once instead of always just looking forlornly at everyone else enjoying themselves.

My younger sister was full of anticipation when she saw the lusciously frosted chocolate-y looking cake. She insisted on taste testing. One forkful later, she was laughing so hard tears were coming out of her eyes, but she was unable to speak because the cake had glued her trap shut. In the spirit of solidarity, I took the next bite. I, too, was struck with severe laughing the instant my mouth sensors shot information to my brain. I am talking about the kind of laughter where all of one's abdominal muscles are taxed to their limit, in spite of one's six pack.

I will try to describe the horror baked into that cake. It is hard to determine which assaulted me first, the taste or the texture. They were equally traumatizing but I'm just trying to be accurate. With that kind of extreme sensation, though, sequencing is difficult.

The moment the cake was in my mouth I knew it was going to be tragic. The cake was dry and crumbly, but adhered by a bitter non-chocolate frosting with the consistency of synovial fluid. So even though it disintegrated rapidly, possibly allowing me a moment of hope that it would be over soon, the "frosting" caused the entire mouthful to linger, similar to how a "fecal impaction" might cause an intestineful to linger. Though I chewed through tears and laughter, the cake did not respond to saliva or teeth. It remained crumbs of anguish suspended in a slurry-like frosting medium. Swallowing was inhibited by the inability of my mouth and throat muscles to identify and adapt to the situation, and also primal fear at ingesting such a fucked up substance. I continued to chew in the hope that the cake would be rendered neutral. Alas it was not but I managed to overcome my instincts and force it down.

I had expected that once I swallowed the cake, my ordeal would be over. Instead the flavor continued to grow and change in spite of the fact that the cake was no longer present in my mouth. It went from rancid, gritty, and devastating to bitter, determined, and inescapable. Even though I was still laughing, in the back of my mind I felt trapped and began to wonder if I would ever escape the taste.

My sister had used her regular cake recipe, but checked online for replacements for most of the ingredients. For instance, instead of normal flour she had to use the ground essence of Hell. No sugar at all--clearly it was sweetened with the triumph of Chairman Mao. For eggs, I'm not sure what she used. Maybe a different type of egg, like basilisk or something. Instead of normal frosting ingredients, she used a sweet(ish) plant extract, memories of war crimes, and curare. The frosting (that I call Hate) also had speckles, which I later found out was particles of vegan non-butter that refused to meld with the other terrible ingredients. All in all it tasted like ass, but worse, like ass that had been sauteed in prison wine.

We passed that cake around all day, enjoying the reactions of relatives and friends who thought they knew what they were getting into but did not, because the full range of human experience could not equip anyone for that cake. It sounds morally questionable and un-holiday-like to do that but it was done with full disclosure. Taste this gross cake, we said. It really sucks, we told them. And they did, and laughter came upon them. And us.

That cake was the highlight of our Thanksgiving. The Cake From Gitmo.

Chocolate cake, yes
It seems like it might be good
No no no it's not

Kind loving sister
Makes cake worse than death and pain
It's the thought that counts

Crumbs stuck to the roof
Of my mouth oh sweet Jesus
Moth feces plus frosting