Frankencake Is Puttin’ on the Ritz

imageThe cookie box says no-bake.  “Add peanut butter,” it instructs. “Easy,” it says.  But you’re fresh out of Skippy and starting to get desperate.  Sugarblind, you dump the mix in a bowl and half the kitchen follows: eggs, butter, baking powder, baking soda, vanilla, flour, and salt.  You laugh maniacally as you slide the concoction into the oven.

“Fool,” they say.  “It can’t be done!”  But thirty minutes later, the bell chimes.  Lightning splits your neighbor’s tree.  Trembling, you pull that bubbling bundt from the oven and marvel in its vanilla-sweet glory.

You taste.  It’s good but…strange.  There’s an alien tang underlying the sweetness–subtle notes of weird.  You turn the no-bake cookie box over.  Soybean oil?  Who the heck puts soy in cookies?  And then it dawns on you.  You could’ve easily made a cake without the mix.  All the ingredients were there.  What is wrong with you?  

“Don’t worry,” you whisper, sprinkling powdered sugar over your monstrous creation. “They’ll except you.  They have to.  You’re the only dessert in the house, baby.  You’re going to be a star!”

Michelle Joyce Bond


3 thoughts on “Frankencake Is Puttin’ on the Ritz

  1. And then, the hole in the middle of the bundt suddenly squeezes together, forming crusty lips, and says to you, in a low, powerful voice, “Let them eat cake.”

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