Cake Plate

If ever I should want to revisit anger all I have to do is lean over the table in the kitchen that holds the toaster and the all important coffee maker, and look past the rack full of dishes to peer behind the fridge. That’s where the cake plate lives. At least that’s where it lives now. Wallowing upside down and all but forgotten.

Sometime next year, in mid-March, I’ll be forced to crawl under the table, squeezing past the microwave that rests beneath it supported by the milk crates where we keep our canned goods; then, with much groaning and straining, stretch my arm until I think my shoulder is going to dislocate, back behind the appliance in hopes of reaching the shiny metal platter with the very tips of my fingers, it’s lid hopefully locked firmly in place so it can be inched towards me and passed upwards to my wife. It will then be washed in preparations for the only purpose for it’s existence; to transport my daughter’s birthday cake  from our tiny two bedroom apartment to whatever park we have decided to hold her party at. When the complaining, sweaty children have devoured their fill of chocolate coated sugar sponge, that will probably also involve strawberries. It then will be carried back home without ceremony by my exhausted wife and I, so that it can shuffled about our tiny kitchen for a few days while we struggle to dispose of the inevitable leftovers; without either gorging ourselves on sugar, or actually throwing away potentially edible cake. This latter condition serves mainly to avoid the wrath of the small child who keeps careful track of how many theoretical slices are left beneath that sacred metal dome.

Once this is accomplished it will be cleaned and dried then put back together, making sure the lid is firmly locked into place. The freshly polished vessel will be returned to its proper and prominent place, on top of the fridge, because it is too big and its shape to awkward to be stored anywhere else.

And there is will rest…

For about two days…

Until I am trying to take a nap in the living room…

And the god damned cat climbs up there for no reason and knocks the useless thing behind the refrigerator again.

Cats are jerkfaces.

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