The one-bowl, two-egg cake

I am bringing up some of the little essays I wrote in the writing class. The one I have printed here was written when I first started attending the class and was much appreciated by the other members of the class. Hope you like it!

The One-Bowl, Two Egg Cake

It was eleven o’clock in the evening and my husband and I were watching the late news on channel 7. I was settled in and watching from the sofa, but he arose from his chair and headed for the kitchen. I froze with apprehension, knowing what was coming. He was hungry and was on his way to cook up a snack.
Big deal, you are thinking! Why not? After all, it’s his kitchen, too. So what if you have already turned on the dishwasher, tidied up the sink and kitchen table, and swiffered the floor. It’s not the end of the world.
But wait. What if he wants to bake something? Then I will get involved reading the recipe and starting the oven, and watching whatever is in the oven, and then serving it up and even being expected to eat some of it with appreciation. He will expect praise and accolades, and help in making the frosting and in cleaning up.
I silently sent a prayer heavenward. “Dear God,” I prayed. “Let it be muffins. Not the one-bowl, two egg cake. Please, God.” Then I bargained with God. “If it can’t be muffins, let it be chocolate chip cookies. Or pudding. Or popcorn. Anything else. Anything but the one-bowl cake.”
We had never actually eaten one of his cakes. The first time he baked one he forgot the baking powder and we threw out the flat rounds of rock hard cake that resulted. The second time he tried, he accidentally turned the oven to 250 instead of 350 and when he took the cake out it fell and even though he tried baking it again we couldn’t eat it. The third cake was lumpy because he had forgotten to mix it at high speed for four minutes as called for in the recipe. This would be his fourth attempt.
I never interfere with my husband’s projects. I learned a lesson long ago and far away when we were both very young. I tried to tell him how to mix a cake and in response he dashed the mixing bowl down onto the kitchen floor, breaking the bowl and scattering shards of glass and cake batter from one end of the kitchen to the other. As I cleaned up the mess, I vowed to never offer advice or criticism again, no matter how urgent the matter.
His behavior seems atrocious, but in the dysfunctional household in which he grew up, it made sense. His mother routinely hurled dishes across the room, his father smashed furniture, and his brother slammed doors so hard the windows rattled. Throwing a bowl of cake batter onto the floor was a mild reaction.
But I am a fast learner, and I have kept my resolve. Unless he asks for my advice, I never give it. When he heated oil in the steel frying pan, I said not a word, but walked out of the house and watered the roses. When he set the oven to broil and burned up the tuna casserole, I didn’t even notice. Let the chips fall where they may.
I sat in my chair and listened intently. There, he is getting out the Kitchen-Aide mixer. Oh, s--t! That means the cake! I silently listened while he pulled down the ingredients, hoping against hope that he would remember the recipe this time, and my help would not be needed. Although he rejected all advice and criticism, he didn’t mind at all soliciting my help when HE felt like having it. Sure enough, he called from the kitchen.
“What do I use to grease the pan? I’m using the tube cake pan.”
My repertoire of cuss words contains some choice phrases, and I silently went through every word I knew, and some I made up on the spot. I was incredulous! He couldn’t mean the tube pan. But that is what he meant and I hollered back, “Grease it with Crisco. Not vegetable oil. Not butter. Crisco “
Silence for awhile while he measured and sifted and got everything ready. I didn’t hear him cracking eggs or getting out the milk but who am I to interfere with his obvious efficiency in cake baking? I was relieved when I heard the refrigerator door opening and I could hear him pulling out the egg tray. Maybe this time it would turn out. He turned on the mixer and actually mixed on low speed for two minutes and on high speed for four minutes. Good! He poured the batter into the pan and opened the oven door. A few choice words escaped his lips when he realized he had forgotten to turn on the oven. But at last everything was in order and he set the timer for twenty-five minutes and we relaxed while we awaited the results. The fact that the buzzer sounded almost immediately wasn’t really all that alarming – he had set it for 2.5 minutes by mistake. At last all was in order. I took out my knitting and settled down to relax for awhile.
It was peaceful there in the living room with a fire in the stove, and my knitting coming along, and I almost fell asleep I was so comfortable. Then the timer buzzed and my husband leaped to his feet and rushed out into the kitchen again. “Does this look done to you?” he called, pulling out the pan. It did look done, and we put it up on the counter to cool, as the recipe said to do. It had turned out magnificently, having risen above and over the rim of the pan like a fluffy brown mushroom. It smelled good and was a good color. When I pressed lightly on the top it was resilient and responsive. I couldn’t use a toothpick as it was about eight inches high, but I judged it to be done. We waited for it to cool and I returned to my knitting. By the time we got it frosted and had eaten a piece it would be well after midnight. Oh, well. Ca La Vie. I fell into a light sleep.
Cries of dismay awakened me. Banging and slapping sounds were coming from the kitchen. I rushed out, and discovered my husband trying to turn the cake out of the pan onto a cake platter. He tried slapping the sides of the pan, and since it was a tube pan, he shoved against the bottom which was designed to slide up and release the cake. Helpless laughter overtook me. 
Trying to hide my mirth, I turned away and held onto the counter top to keep from collapsing to the floor. He had forgotten to grease the tube and the cake was cemented tightly to the metal and could not be dislodged. Finally, with a mighty shove, he dislodged the entire cake which flew out onto the countertop in chunks and pieces.
I could contain myself no longer. Howling with laughter, I staggered back into the living room and collapsed into the reclining chair. My husband, who can command vast amounts of cool when he chooses, calmly gathered up a large chunk onto a dessert plate, poured himself a glass of milk, and calmly sat down to eat it. “Delicious,” he proclaimed. “Try some.”
It was good. The texture was fine and even and the flavor was all that could be desired. After we had eaten generous portions, we gathered up the remains and put them in a large bowl. The next day we layered the crumbs into dessert dishes with strawberry jam and vanilla pudding. Voila! An English trifle. It was delicious. God knew best, after all.