My Love of Buttercream Knows No Bounds

Last week sometime I sent the Wily Republican a link to this cake over on Cake Wrecks. I included some snarky little message to the tune of wouldn't it be just oh-so-funny if your in-laws rolled out something like this at your wedding?

I hadn't really thought about his wedding since he announced he was engaged. He and his fiancee had some seriously different ideas about when the blessed event would take place--his idea was of the extended engagement variety--but he knew his ideas were probably going to get trumped by bride fever. And it looks like that might have just happened.

The WR e-mailed me back to tell me that he was never going to get a cop-themed donut cake with buttercream frosting because, well, he doesn't like donuts, cake, or buttercream frosting. If he had his choice, his groom's cake would be made of ice cream.

I was appalled by his response. He didn't like donuts? He didn't like cake? He didn't like frosting? He recently let it slip that he's taken up chewing tobacco to keep himself awake on the overnight shifts ("WILY!" I screamed when I heard the news. "YOU ARE MARRYING A DOCTOR! ARE YOU AN IDIOT?!" "Listen," he said, "come talk to me about it again after you try to pull a couple million overnight shifts.")--and apparently the taste of chew is okay, but not donuts, not cake, not buttercream.

I wrote back to tell him I didn't think ice cream cakes went over so well at wedding receptions, and was he going to make an exception for the big day?

The entire conversation was happening in the abstract, and it occurred to me that it had been months since he had talked about specific plans for the wedding, so I figured I should ask about the progress, if they had a venue, if they had a date. And the next time I got him on the phone I did.

"Are you, like, getting married any time soon?" I asked. "I mean, do you have a date?"

"Oh," he said, "yeah. We're getting married in August."

"AUGUST?!" I said. "So much for the extended engagement."

He snorted.

And then--because I am a girl, because I am predictable, because I am a predictable girl--I rattled off about a thousand questions about the wedding, trying to construct an accurate picture in my head. I wanted to know about flowers. I wanted to know about rings. I wanted to know about the cost and who was footing the bill.

And the answers to those questions were as follows: lots, expensive, thirty grand, and him.

"What do you mean expensive?" I asked. "How much did her ring cost?"

And then he said a figure that was so obscene I almost swallowed my tongue. I quickly composed myself. He must have been kidding. He must have made a mistake in the way he phrased the cost.

"Are you kidding me?" I asked and then repeated the obscene amount. "For real?"

"Yeah," he said. He didn't seem to think it was a big deal.

"Jesus," I said. I pictured his fiancee walking around Minnesota with her left hand held straight out in front of her so that everywhere she went everyone could see the fantastic rock on her ring finger. "Oh my God," I said. "Why didn't you ever want to marry me?!"

I wasn't serious, of course; it was just interesting to think what it would be like to get a wedding that included pretty much everything I've ever wanted. And from the sounds of it, the Wily's girl is going to get just that.

"I didn't want to marry you because you're a liberal," he reminded me.

"Right," I said. "Because of that."

Later, after we'd hung up and gone on with our days, I saw that the WR had written back to the snippy comments I'd shipped his way after hearing about his hatred of cake and frosting. There's going to be a buttercream cake at the wedding, he said. Doesn't mean I have to like it.

Have you been to a cake tasting yet?! I wrote. Is it pretty much the best thing in the world? Tell me about it!

He wrote back to tell me that no, he hadn't been to a cake tasting yet, but one was scheduled for the end of the month and he would tell me all about it after it happened.

I had a better idea. Can I come? I wrote. Do you think that would be awkward? You could tell your girl I am your butch lesbian friend who just so happens to be a cake expert. I'll wear lots of plaid.

And what a scene that would be: me draped in ribbons of plaid, plaid, plaid, standing shoulder to shoulder with the dimpled girl the Wily Republican will marry, sharing forkfuls of cake and frosting with her, giggling. I can see the WR in the corner, his arms crossed, his eyes rolled to the ceiling, his brain off dreaming about all the chilly edges of some ice cream cake. "Don't worry about him," I will tell his girl. "Let's try that pear-ginger one again. Or the cherry-almond. Or the butterscotch-walnut. Let's try them all." And we will. And the WR won't be able to say one cross word to either of us. Not a one.