The classic cake switcheroo

My father and my niece have a wonderful birthday tradition.

Born just 69 years and one week apart, they have celebrated their birthdays together for as long as my niece has had a birthday. Last night, we all went out to eat and then went to my sister’s house to open presents and have birthday cake. I live just a few blocks from a wonderful Italian bakery. They make the best chocolate cake ever, so I offered to bring the cake.

Last year, my father turned 90 and my niece turned 21, and so I bought a single candle that said “21” on it and put in nine candles, and they blew them out together. But this year, with my father turning 91 and my niece 22, I could think of no simple means of representing these ages in candles—without burning my sister’s house down.

I thought, as long as the bakery was writing “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” on the cake, they could just as easily write “HAPPY BIRTHDAYS!” followed by “22 & 91.” Then I could put a single candle by each age and simplify the whole complicated (but mandatory) candle- blowing-out procedure.

So that’s what I did. A nice young woman repeated the message back to me on the phone, and I headed out the next day to pick up the cake.

“Right here!” a young man who I had not seen working there before said.

“Could I have a quick look at it?” I asked.

I only asked because they put their cakes in sturdy boxes tied up with two lengths of

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strong ribbon and knot the ribbon at the top. It makes it easy to carry the heavy cake home, but there is no way of opening the box without scissors.

“Sure!” the young man said.

The cake said, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY.”

I knew the young woman had understood me, so I suspected this was not my cake. I told the young man that the ages should be on the cake, and he took the first cake back and went looking for my cake.

He was gone a very long time. “Got it!” he finally said when he returned with another cake. “Can I have a look at it?” I asked again. At this point, I was starting to feel like a bit of a nuisance, but the staff was as friendly as always, so I went around the counter and looked at the cake.

It said, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY 55.”

“This is not my cake,” I told the young man.

By now, the manager—or at least a more senior member of the staff—had taken an interest.

“Aren’t you Karen Carlson?” the manager asked.

“No. I’m Carrie Classon.”

The two bakery employees looked at the cake.

“We gave someone the wrong cake,” the young man announced.

By now, a young woman (I believe the one who took the order) was involved. She confirmed what the cake should have said, and the manager wrote it down on a piece of paper, and the young man disappeared into the back again.

“So sorry for the delay!” the manager said. After a long wait, a new cake appeared.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAYS! 22 & 91” it read.

They tied up the cake with very strong ribbon, and I walked home with my cake.

And at least twice every block, I stopped to laugh out loud.

Because I knew Karen did not check her cake.

She had already taken that cake to someone who was going to get the most confusing birthday message they have had in all their 55 years.

Till next time, Carrie

Carrie Classon is a writer and performer. She is the author of “ I’ve Been Waiting All My Life to be Middle Aged” and a syndicated columnist.

Her memoir, “ Blue Yarn,” was released in 2019. Learn more at CarrieClasson. com.