One year my mom asked me what kind of cake I wanted for my birthday. Chocolate, naturally. My mom heard that but then saw a recipe for a healthy tofu-based cinnamon pie and apparently thought “fuck that kid’s birthday” and made cinnamon tofu pie that none of my friends would eat.
Mmm, gotta love that flat, kinda a little sweet mushy cracker cake. Tastes like disappointment.
My mom made a sport of ruining my birthdays. Sometimes it was something like interrupting the party to tell me my teacher had called and I was in trouble, but usually it was my mom’s ego making her think that kids were down with whatever whole wheat bullshit she had found at the natural food store. The rye flour crust pizza she forced on me and my dwindling pool of friends who would come to my house the year after the cinnamon pie was the final nail in my birthday party coffin. Decades later I still hate my birthday.
This is exactly the kind of thing my mother would do, and the kind of shit I grew up having to eat.
One year my mom asked me what kind of cake I wanted for my birthday. Chocolate, naturally. My mom heard that but then saw a recipe for a healthy tofu-based cinnamon pie and apparently thought “fuck that kid’s birthday” and made cinnamon tofu pie that none of my friends would eat.
I feel your pain.
“Not only does that thing exist, but you also deprived the whole party of cake.”
I still have friends from childhood that ensure they remind me of all of the carob cakes they had to eat to come to my birthday parties.
My mom also found out you can replace oil or eggs or sweetener with applesauce in baked goods. Eventually my cakes were flour and applesauce.
Mmm, gotta love that flat, kinda a little sweet mushy cracker cake. Tastes like disappointment.
My mom made a sport of ruining my birthdays. Sometimes it was something like interrupting the party to tell me my teacher had called and I was in trouble, but usually it was my mom’s ego making her think that kids were down with whatever whole wheat bullshit she had found at the natural food store. The rye flour crust pizza she forced on me and my dwindling pool of friends who would come to my house the year after the cinnamon pie was the final nail in my birthday party coffin. Decades later I still hate my birthday.
Look on the bright side… At least you’re making some strangers on the Internet laugh!
I’m so sorry for… I don’t even know what to pinpoint.
I’m so sorry
Did your mom have the Moosewood Cookbook? This is like every fucking recipe in that book. I hate it so much.