Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed, Something...Red?

[THIS DISCLAIMER IS FOR MY SISTER. THERE IS PUKE IN THIS STORY, BUT NO PICTURES. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK]

 

My precious MJ is no more. She is now MJS; well, she is actually a Mrs. Yes, MJ got married. MJS freely admits she did it a little differently than some folks. She met a man. They fell in love. They made a love child. They decided to live together, and then she had their love child. He got a new job and moved out of state. She waited until her older daughter finished school, then they moved up there with him. They bought a house. And then, after all that other stuff, they got married.

MJS and her new husband, PS, aren’t naive. They have each been married before, and they decided that the best wedding for them, which isn’t necessarily the kind everyone else would plan, would be to have a small simple ceremony, just the two of them on the beach. They found a woman online who performed coastal weddings. Her name was something like Moonbeam Flowerpot or Petunia Shooting Star. I haven’t seen a picture of her, but I imagine she looks like something from a renaissance faire, with an odd colored full length dress and flowing white hair.

 MJS and her man left the kids with her parents and drove down to the beach. MJS wore white, so what? They stood in the sand, and Milky Way Snapdragon pulled an older couple off the beach to witness their union. The couple was having their photo taken on the occasion of their thirty fifth wedding anniversary, so what more can you ask for in a couple of witnesses, really. MJS and PS were happy, and they married and celebrated by eating too much dinner and then having an intimate moment or two. You know how newlyweds are. A few days later, they had a small wedding reception in the clubhouse of their neighborhood, and my family along with some of their close friends and family members joined them to celebrate their big day.

“What do you want for a gift?” I asked her before her actual big day.

“Don’t get me anything. You don’t get people anything when they are already living together and have a baby.”

“Are you sure?” I said.

She had not registered for gifts, and Emily Post didn’t have any great suggestions on what to get a couple that’s already done all the stuff people do after they get married. Hallmark doesn’t even make a card that says “You finally got married? Jesus, I mean Mazel tov!” She’s got dishes and sheets and baking pans and glasses and furniture. And a baby. But what could I do?

“You know what, I would love if you would bake the cake for my reception,” she said.

I love to bake, and I’m pretty good at it, but I am a home baker. My stuff looks like it came from your grandmother, not the Cake Boss.

“I’m happy to bake for you, but I can’t make it pretty.”

“I don’t care about that,” MJS said. “I just want your red velvet.”

"I can't make you a six layered cake. I only have one sized pan."

She decided I should make two separate cakes. We would put out the first, and when that one was finished, we would set out the next one, and hopefully have enough for all the guests.

The day before we went to the reception, I baked six layers of red velvet cake. As they cooled on the counter, I doubled a batch of cream cheese frosting in my Kitchen Aid stand mixer. I frosted and chilled and smoothed and frosted and chilled and smoothed until I had two separate three layer cakes. I evened out the icing and the cakes looked like they usually did, like someone baked them at home. They were a tad lopsided, with an edge of red poking out of the fluffy white. They were less like newlyweds and more like a tired old couple, the kind that gave up on sex and settled for companionship. I attempted dressing up the sides with white chocolate shavings, which had about the same effect as if I emptied my vacuum bag on top of them.

I loaded the cakes into a couple of coolers and  we drove up to North Carolina for the reception. That night, it didn’t matter what the cakes looked like. After a drink or two and a contented belly full of appetizers and lasagna, everyone just wanted something sweet. I sliced the first cake and served it and everyone was happy, especially the bride.

Red velvet cake is rich, and with thin slices, that first cake was enough to serve the small crowd. MJS packed up the second one along with the rest of the evening’s leftovers and took them home to enjoy for the next few days after all the company was gone. She had that cake, along with an apple cake her mother made, sitting against the back splash on the counter, ready for anyone to come along and help themselves to a slice when the mood struck.

Unfortunately, the mood struck PS’s yellow lab, Boone, before anyone else could get a hankering. While no one was looking, he stood next to the counter on his hind legs and used his front paws to scoot the cakes closer to the edge. Then he ate them. Over half a red velvet cake, and about the same amount of apple cake, choked down by one pig of a dog.

MJS was so upset. Gone was her cake for breakfast. Gone was a slice for afternoon snack for her daughter. Gone was the after dinner treat PS had so anticipated.

Over two cakes: that’s a lot for one dog to handle. Around bedtime that night, he got sick as, well, a dog. He threw up bright red dog puke all over the bedroom. He upchucked more red in the yard. He dry heaved in the bathroom for a few hours. Then he collapsed on his side, exhausted from all the throwing up, and slept the sleep of the innocent. MJS, being the caregiver in her home, was up all night, tending to the dog and the messes he made.

“The fucking dog ate all the cake,” she told me the next day.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” I said to her. Yes, we really do say 'fuck' that often.

“Fucking dog. I guess he’s mine now.”

“No, he’s a step dog. But I guess you have to love him like he was your own.”

“Fucker,” she said.

“At least he didn’t ruin your new  white rug,” I said helpfully.

“No, but he did puke in the yard, and every single one of us stepped in it.”

“Is that what’s meant by ‘for better or for worse’?”

“There is nothing about dog puke in wedding vows,” she said, “but maybe there should be.”

Congratulations, MJS and PS! And control your dog. I don’t make dog cakes, you know.