January 28, 2009
“I don’t know how to break this to you, but I’m baking the penis cake.”
My wife shook her head, defeated. She knew that morning that there was nothing she could do to stop me. So instead, she made me promise that if the cake wasn’t well-received at the party, I would make a public announcement saying that she had not approved of it.
The brilliant idea had come to me the night before, when I was thinking of what hors d’oeuvres to bring for my friend Jessie’s Inaugural Ball. This hang out, drink and dance party was an excuse for a bunch of graduate and post-graduate students to dress up in formal wear and celebrate the joyous swearing in of Barack Obama.
Looking over recipes in my kitchen, I was struck with what my filthy mind perceived as pure genius: What if I made a chocolate penis cake in honor of the first black president? It would even come with its own tagline: Barack Obama—Breaking our nation’s long history of white dicks in the Oval Office.
It was perfect. But was it so completely politically incorrect that my cohorts would recoil in horror? Would I become a social pariah? The “inappropriate girl” who doesn’t realize that she has grossly offended everyone in the room?
I needed a second opinion. So I emailed my friend Travis.
And I found my first measure of support with him. “Two things come to mind,” he wrote. “1) It would only be a social faux pas if the penis were anything shorter than 12 inches, because let’s face it, Obama ain’t swinging a little dick, and 2) try to avoid having any white icing spewing forth from the tip in a celebratory, I-just-got-a-new-president load. Otherwise, I think you’d be fine.”
Before bed, I floated the idea past my wife, who would be accompanying me to the party the next night.
“Absolutely not,” she said. “Not if I’m coming with you.”
“But what if I snuck it in and it just ‘showed up’ on the snack table?” I asked.
She raised an eyebrow. “Everyone would know it was you.”
She was right.
In the morning, I called my older sister—who shares my corrupt mind, as do all my siblings—and mentioned my vetoed pastry creation.
“Oh my God! You HAVE to do it,” my sister insisted. “That would totally make the party.”
My second measure of support was all the more justification that I needed. I hung up the phone and went to the store to get cake mix.
“Oh. Snacks,” I said, and made a bee-line for the kitchen. I set the cake out on the counter, along with its accompanying “inaugural balls” cupcakes. Then I abandoned ship.
“Did you bring cake?” my friend Sara asked before I could get away.
“What?” I said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She leaned over the cake pan and gasped. “Oh my God,” Sara said. “This is fabulous.” She picked up the cake and brought it to the living room. The other guests passed it around like communion, changing it from hand to hand and laughing. When it made its way back to the kitchen, it came with friends.”
“Awesome cake, Laura.”
“Did you have a mold for this? Or how did you make it?”
All night long, I received a stream of compliments. They shook my hand. They hugged me. People I didn’t even know greeted me in a warm embrace. The chocolate fudge phallus cake—extra moist—was a raging success.
I wish the same for our new leader.