There are a few things that my father cooks – spaghetti sauce, christmas turkey…and my mother’s birthday cake. From the time that I can recollect thinking about birthday cakes that weren’t my own, I remember the pepperminty, fluffy, oreo cookie based grasshopper cake that my father made appear from nowhere every June 26th. At such a young age, I couldn’t understand why for the past 15 some odd years we’d had that cake, and why we’d probably have it another 100. How could anyone want one cake for every birthday?
Last night when we got home from drinks with friends, I opened the fridge. The light was burnt out, but as I slid my hand along the second shelf looking for the water jug, I stuck my hand in something soft. Usually not a good thing. But as I pulled my hand out of the fridge I caught a whiff of peppermint, and as I turned on the kitchen light there it was, in all it’s minty, misshapen glory – a grasshopper cake.
I grabbed some water, closed the door, and smiled. And this morning, I was surprised by my first grasshopper cake.