I have class, I just don’t know where I left it
Maybe it’s ’cause I’m a born-and-bred Midwesterner who, for the longest time, considered a 12-oz. steak a really high-class meal. My tastes are not sophisticated. I’m slowly learning to appreciate the finer things in life, but that growing appreciation has never extended to elaborate wedding cakes.
Yes, they are beautiful. Edible art, in fact! But when I can’t bite into a cake without encountering six-inch layers of frosting and whole soggy strawberries, I’m not enjoying my dessert. And they’re hideously expensive–what is it, like, ten bucks an inch? So while I’m happy as a clam looking at a wedding cake, when the time comes to eat dessert I’d rather have some caramel-swirled triple-chocolate brownies and high-quality vanilla gelato (see? that’s kind of fancy!) than suffer through all the needless frippery inside all that pretty icing.
So what happens when I leave my wild and crazy guy lifestyle behind and settle down with a six-figure wedding bash? I don’t want to spend the dough necessary for a towering monstrosity of fondant and fruit, but ritual demands I smash a piece of one into my new bride’s face (or is it the other way around?). What’s an iconoclast like me to do?
Why, I simply rent a cake, of course! With convenient services like this one, I pay a tiny price for an impressive foam cake covered in real fondant. It even comes with one real slice of cake, so the bride and I can make a good show of consuming the mm-mm-good fancy cake. Then it’s wheeled into the kitchen and the real stuff is brought out a few minutes later, with no one the wiser, except for the folk sober enough to say “hey, this tastes like you bought it at Costco!”
It’s a brave new world.
But I might reconsider my cake policy if I get to eat this one:
Nom nom nom.
-In all probability, Jim may make baklava for his wedding