Birthday cake

My mother and I are locked in grave discussion. It has nothing to do with teachers' strikes or the growing hole in the Ozone Layer. It has everything to do with my three-year-old's birthday cake. What on earth am I going to make him?

Birthday cakes in our playgroup, and perhaps in the wider community of doting mothers and edgy ankle-biters, are big – metaphorically speaking.

Party games may be an optional extra and lukewarm party pies tolerated but the cake must be spot on. The cake is the focus of the show, the culmination of all that balloon-blowing and honey-joyism. And the essential ingredient is the vavoom factor.

I probably would have been alright if I hadn't spotted the Aeroplane Jelly pamphlet featuring the Wibble Wobble Flan. This looked really exciting – and do-able. All that red jelly wobbling around in that pre-made flan; all those lollies scattered on top – though I'd probably substitute them for something more focused, like frogs. And I'd probably drop the custard topping for nasturtium leaves.

All was clear and I was at peace with the world until I made an amazing anthropological discovery. Supermarkets have gone cold on flans. The pre-made flan that has been filled so conveniently by desperate hostesses is on the nose (along with a certain brand of natural yoghurt, but that's another story.) Too many mothers have been tossing around flans like frisbees in search of the perfect specimen. ‘We don't stock them anymore’, said our local supermarket, ‘because they break too easily.’

Flanless and planless. Then the serious discussions started. Perhaps I could make a cheesecake base instead of a flan – though would the sides hold up to the jelly? And what about the colour? Grandma couldn't bear the thought of frogs swimming in red jelly. Why not green...

I like to think that part of my cake hysteria stems from the fact that my own wedding cake was donated to the local church for a Christmas lunch. In his haste to walk me down the aisle my father had made a spectacular fruit cake, never realising that ‘getting engaged’ meant staying permanently engaged. ‘You didn't really think we meant get married, did you?’ I asked him a few years later.

I believe I am not the only mother to sweat over the birthday cake. The other mothers in our playgroup have fought their own demons.

Sally trod the cake shop road and returned home with an industrial-sized sponge to serve to a party of eight. We only just managed to eat our way through the ‘er’ of ‘Happy Birthday Alexander’ before we were stonkered. The cake was so huge Sally decided to hold another party the next day just to honour the thing.

In Anna's case, it was a White Wings chocolate cake which would have been fine except that the oven had a lean and the cake came out looking like a beret. In a courageous attempt, Anna bolstered one end with whipped cream but we all shared her pain.

It was Cathy who set an impossible precedent, creating her own masterpiece from the Australian Women's Weekly Birthday Cake book. (I have since learnt that this is the Bible of birthday cakes and if you are any sort of mother you will use it annually for your beloveds, even the forty-year-olds who've always hankered for an iced footy.)

The light grew dim and Cathy made her big entrance carrying little Tom's train cake. It had four different coloured carriages, loaded with popcorn, an engine studded with sweets and mint chocolates for the wheels.

The mothers were thrilled and knocked over a few three-year-olds on the way to getting a closer look. We pored over the finer details – the smartie bumper bars, the fairy floss for steam... We took photos of Cathy and The Cake. Cathy with balloons and The Cake. Cathy with balloons, The Cake and, oh yes – Tom!

My own son's birthday party is over now. After the flan debate I travelled the world considering ice cream cakes, telephone cakes, jelly with a sparkler, jelly with no sparkler. In the end I opted for a Hickory Dickory clock cake. It came from the Bible of birthday cakes and almost looked like the real thing.

Except that I changed the Roman numerals to Arabic and substituted the mouse for a frog...

by Jo-Ann Stubbings

This article was first published by Australian Family Magazine, June 2004.