The King of Kings' Thing

It might seem too late after Mardi Gras for a King cake story, but it is still Lent, so deal with it.

My husband came home from work last week with the remnants of a King cake that someone sent to his office quite a bit after Mardi Gras. Apparently, the individual who sent the cake is something of a big Mardi Gras fan; he goes to New Orleans almost every year. He routinely sends King cakes to people, only not in a timely fashion, so they arrive some time after some people have already given up sweets for Lent, which is never an issue in my house. My husband and daughters enjoyed a piece of the cake after dinner, their mouths discolored from the combination of purple, yellow, and green sugars melting in saliva. There was one piece of cake left, which my husband ate much later as his late night snack after everyone else had gone to bed.

The next night, while getting ready for bed, my daughter, S, asked where the rest of the King cake went.

“In my belly!” my husband answered in his best Fat Bastard voice.

“Well, who got the baby?” S wanted to know.

She referred to the little plastic baby baked inside every King cake. I never understood why a King cake has a baby hidden in it, so I had to ask an expert. I checked with my friend, RC, who has excellent King cake credentials. Not only is she Catholic, but she is also from New Orleans. She told me the deal with the King cake baby. Apparently, he is supposed to represent Christ, which I find a tad on the creepy side. I don’t want Jesus baked in my cake. Let Him stay in those communion wafers which will never pass my lips. But a fancy coffee cake doesn’t seem quite like what people had in mind when they say God is everywhere.

RC told me that there is also a tradition that the person who finds the baby in the cake has to buy the King cake the next year. So not only is the baby Jesus hidden in the King cake, but if you are the one who almost breaks your tooth on Him, your big fat reward is to buy the next round. Some prize that is.

Anyway, back to the baby my husband found in his piece of King Cake that he enjoyed as his late night snack.

“What did you do with it?” S asked him.

“I left it on the coaster in the bonus room,” he said.

Both my daughters scrambled down the hall like they were searching for the afikoman. (Ha! A Jew joke in the middle of a baby Jesus story!) E got there first and came sprinting back down the hall with baby JC in her fist.

“Let me see Him!” S screeched.

E handed Him over to her, and the two of them examined Him while I washed my face. I could hear them whispering and laughing, since an 8 and 10 year old whisper is still a good ten decibels over a quiet speaking voice.

“What’s so funny?” I asked them while I dried my face with the hand towel.

“He’s naked,” S said.

“So? He’s a baby. What do you want, a baby with a dirty diaper in your cake?” Comments like these are why my kids think I’m weird.

“Well, you can see his, you know,” E said.

“His what? His butt?” I asked.

“No, His wiener!” S screamed.

“You don’t say. Let me take a look at that thing.” E dropped the baby in my palm and I looked closely, inspecting the plastic molded area between JC’s chubby baby legs.

“Kind of,” I admitted. “It might just be a lump, from how it was made."

“Nope, I don’t think so,” E said authoritatively. “That is definitely a wiener.”

“How can you be so sure?” I asked foolishly. “How many wieners have you seen, exactly?” My husband, at this point, had clearly left the room, although his body was still there, applying toothpaste to the Sonic Care toothbrush.

”Well, none in person, other than Daddy’s,” she admitted.

“Stop looking at it,” my husband said. For the record, he was dressed the entire time this conversation took place.

“Remember when S was in the Nutcracker?” E said.

“Yes, I do,” I said.

“Well, those boy ballerinas wear those tights, the white ones, and they’re so tight, and…”

“You can see their wieners through their tights?” I asked incredulously. Clearly, I was not living up to my aspirations as a cougar if I had not even noticed teenage wieners at the ballet. Not only did I not observe said wiener action, but I had to learn about it from my 10 year old daughter. And here I thought we were trying to expose our children to the beauty and art of dance.

“You can’t help but look at it,” S chimed in. “It’s all big and out there.”

My husband ended the conversation by plugging up S’s pie hole with the toothbrush. By the time we finished with the bedtime routine stories, the baby Jesus, His wiener, and the last piece of King cake had long been forgotten. In fact, I have no idea where that baby ended up, although I have a feeling he is lurking in a little girl’s bedroom, to be taken out and studied when that little girl thinks no one is looking.