Of Groundhogs, Cake-Decorating Contests, and Post-Baptism Parties

Note: The following anecdote contains highly sensitive material that may possibly create cringing in family members who were alive to witness this as it unfolded. And Dad... sorry for recounting this, but it's probably my favorite thing about Groundhog Day--retelling it and watching Mom squirm.

Okay. So, years ago, my parents were on the activities committee for our ward. (Actually, they've served as activities committee chairs so many times over the years, I've lost count. I think this was time #2.) They decided to throw a birthday bash for our ward, and have a birthday cake decorating contest to boot.

My mom decorated a gorgeous three tiered white buttercream frosting cake, complete with chocolate ivy leaves and ganouche drizzled all over it. Needless to say, the impartial judges selected this cake as the winner. My dad, however...

Dad decided to make a Groundhog Day cake, since the party was held the night of Groundhog Day. "No one ever makes a cake for Groundhog Day," he rationalized. He could not have been more thrilled with his genius. He bought a tiny stuffed groundhog, which looked more like a teddy bear, baked a cake, and began to put together his vision: the groundhog sitting outside of his hole, with a bright yellow sun (Oreo cookie with yellow frosting) high above his head.

In reality, though, the rectangular cake's frosting had fur in it from the stuffed groundhog. The hole he dug to be the groundhog's lair was uneven, leaving a trail of cake crumbs (dirt clods?) at the groundhog's feet. And the sun, the cookie which he had frosted, wouldn't stay above the groundhog's head, or on the wire he had rigged to stand out of the cake like a fence post. He brought it to the church.

All the cakes on the table were eaten out of, except one: the doomed groundhog cake. By the end of the night, there was only one corner missing--and our speculation is that Dad ate that himself.

It came home with us that night, sat on top of our refrigerator the next day, and then Saturday...

Saturday was the day our little neighbor was baptized, and we were invited to their house afterwards for (what else?) cake and lemonade. Mom and I walked over to the table to grab a slice, and were mildly horrified to see the groundhog cake making a very unwelcome appearance next to the beautiful sheet cake from Costco.

Ugh, the groundhog cake, that damn groundhog cake. So unappetizing. So pathetically hilarious.

Dad had seen what they were serving and ran across the street to get the groundhog cake. "No sense in wasting it," he pointed out.

No one ate the groundhog cake.

Dad kind of sulked when he brought it home, and there it sat, on top of our refrigerator for a few weeks, my dad refusing to throw it away because every cake deserves to be eaten, my mom refusing to throw it away because, by golly, it was his damn cake.

When we finally did get around to tossing it, the groundhog was welded to the cake by some pretty nasty frosting, the piss yellow Oreo had sunken into the "lair," a thin layer of dust covered the groundhog's nose. No point in salvaging it, we figured, and the whole thing went belly up into the trash.

Of course, my dad was just being prudent. A cake is a cake is a cake. But every Groundhog Day, while we watch Bill Murray speaka de French to Andie McDowell while RatFace Chris Elliot looks on, I think of that cake.

If I'm chocolate-deprived, I think of the cake with a pang of regret, wishing I had eaten a piece of Dad's masterpiece. Every cake deserves to be eaten.