Singin' the carrot cake blues

Last weekend we gathered with relatives to celebrate those with February birthdays, which included the Hero and another -- as in-laws are affectionately known in my family -- outlaw. Since it was close to the 14th, we also celebrated Valentine's Day. Basically, it was a gathering of persons bound by blood or marriage and all centered on one purpose: consuming cake.


The day before the birthday dinner, I inquired eagerly about the cake. Chocolate? Yellow? Chocolate AND yellow? Yummy creamy stuff in between the layers?


"It's carrot," my sister said.


"Carrot!" I said, in much the same way I might have responded had she said the cake was broccoli and artichoke with ketchup frosting and a little bit of sawdust for crunch. I decided it would be rude to say any more, or to inquire whose brilliant idea it had been to have carrot cake. All day, and the next, I tried not to think about how we could have had a cookies and cream cake with a gooey fudgy center and chocolate marshmallow frosting. 


But no, we were having carrot cake. Dry, stringy carrot cake. Well, at least there would be ice cream. I hoped it did not have kelp in it.


Dinner was the usual lively affair, with nine adults and five children and one knock-knock joke book. When it was time for cake, everyone eagerly asked what kind it was.


"Carrot," someone said.


"Carrot!" several voices said. You could tell they had meant to say, "Ewwwww!" I took some comfort in the fact that I was not the only one disturbed by the choice of cake.


Since the Hero cannot have gluten, regular flour cakes are off limits. But on this occasion it did not make him downhearted, as his special gluten-free coconut cake slice he had brought from home now looked positively luscious. I served it to him at the table, causing an instant uproar among others who were still dealing with the betrayal of the carrot cake.


"Hey!" one adult Male Relative said. "What's HE got? That's not carrot cake! I want THAT!"


"It's, uh, white carrot cake," I said. "Albino carrots."


The Hero basked in the knowledge that he had the most popular cake, and that since we had only brought one slice, he could not be forced to share it with anyone. He ate it with gusto, in case anyone was watching.


At least one Male Relative had nothing against the carrot cake. When his was gone, he scouted the table for other, unclaimed slices. "Is your piece up for grabs?" he said to me, gesturing to a piece discreetly set to the side of my bowl of ice cream.


"It's all yours," I said, relieved to no longer have it staring at me reproachfully.


With cake, ice cream, and an assortment of Valentine candy, we all consumed rather more sugar than was prudent, and when someone mentioned the recent passing of Whitney Houston, our sugar-saturated minds decided a tribute was in order. I'm sure Ms. Houston would have considered it more of a travesty, particularly when we exhausted our repertoire of her songs and segued into others, including Climb Every Mountain and Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.


The children among us behaved much better. Probably because THEY weren't served carrot cake. THEY had yummy cupcakes.


Which is what we want next time.