Today is Robbi’s birthday. Happy Birthday, Robbi.
Because I try to make Robbi happy, I decided to bake her a cake. A Jell-o cake, as has been the longstanding tradition, when it comes to commemorating the anniversary of Robbi’s arrival.
All was going well, at first, in spite of the advanced baking techniques required: zesting a lemon, sifting flour, separating eggs. I was feeling good about myself.
Until I registered the funny smell. The preheating oven was spewing forth unholy smoky fumes.
It was only then that I remembered, far too late, that since we got the new dishwasher, we have been storing the old dish drainer inside the oven.
My valiant attempts at rescue were in vain.
In addition to the loss of our dish drainer (to which we had more sentimental attachment than you can probably understand), I filled our entire living space with thick black smoke. We had an emergency evacuation. In spite of a full night of work by our powerful fans, the room still has an unholy reek.
Here are the requisite “morning after,” shots: an anthem to my shame, that I might never forget the tragedy wrought on the eve of Robbi’s 36th birthday.
And from the other side.
If you look at it in a certain light, and kind of squint your eyes, you can almost believe that it’s a perfectly roasted marshmallow.
And Robbi loves marshmallows.
Ah birthdays. As time rolls on, I think it helps to endure them with a bit of comic relief.