I know a guy who says he doesn’t like cake.
I don’t believe a word of it – and bet he enjoys pastry-filled private moments – but I’m impressed nonetheless. With this one little white frosting of a lie, he has granted himself the perfect excuse for an early escape from all awkward office morning teas. (And aren’t all office morning teas awkward?) Oh and of course, he never brings cake to the office.
Lacking the foresight to keep my cakehole to myself, I have eaten many a ‘just a small slice’ at work. But, to date, thanks to my (relative) youth, my (relative) masculinity and my (Christmassy) birth date, I, too, have never brought cake to the office.
I felt it was time to remedy this – or at least to pretend to. I telephoned a self-styled ‘cooking entrepreneur’ who was offering what sounded like the perfect course.
“I’m a lawyer working in a small law firm,” I said. “It’s my turn to bring cake to the office. I was hoping you could show me how to make law-themed cupcakes.”
“Law-themed cupcakes? I’ve never heard that one before.”
“I’d never heard of a cupcake-decorating class before,” I said. “I thought it would be perfect, but I’ve been looking at the classes on your website. Nothing seems quite right.”
“What about ‘Character Cakes’.”
“You could say my colleagues are ‘characters’. What sort do you make?”
“Muppets.”
“That’s them all right.”
I booked online and, on a rainy Saturday afternoon, arrived at the appointed church hall to find a dozen pregnant women at tables.
“You came!” said the teacher. “But why on earth did you book for ‘Baby Shower’ cupcakes?”
“I thought it would suit me best … from a creative perspective.”
The teacher called the class to order, and we started rolling fondant. The teacher made two peas, and then folded them into a pod, and placed it on a cupcake.
“There you go. Two peas in a pod!”
The class murmured. I made my pod, then two peas, and then another pea and another and I kept rolling fondant until I had a family of five. I placed mother pea and three baby peas in the pod, and put papa-pea on the outside. No pea was smiling.
“It’s a post-divorce cupcake,” I announced. “The way half all our pods will end up.”
The pregnant women rippled with displeasure.
“Next, we’ll make a baby,” said the teacher.
“That,” I said. “I know how to do.”
I made a beauty too. All plump, pink and cute.
“Very nice,” said my neighbour, resting a hand on her belly.
“Now,” I said, raising a knife. “I play King Solomon, and cut it in half.”
I did so. The teacher took me aside.
“Maybe we had better work on some law books for you.”
She found me some fondant that wasn’t pastel and showed me how to make books with gold-leaf pages. I marked them, with edible ink, ‘Contract’, ‘Torts’ and ‘The Journal’.
Then, while everyone else made nappies, I was shown how to roll mine into scrolls. I wrapped ribbons around them and placed them on a cupcake with pride.
“I think I might be ready to rejoin the class now,” I said.
Everyone else was working on a baby sleeping under a blanket. I caught up and rolled out a figure: one gaunt and grey, with bags under its eyes.
“What are you doing?” asked the teacher.
“It’s an old man,” I said.
“I took an off-cut from an old nappy-scroll and carefully penned on it ‘Last Will and Testament’ and lay it by the man. I lay a blanket over him.
“Is he dead?”
“No, he’s written his will and gone to bed,” I said. “He’ll die in his sleep tonight.”
“That’s awful.”
“It’s worse than you think,” I said. “He’s signed his will, but look … no witness. This little cupcake is going to give rise to one ugly dispute.”