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When my brother was seven, my twin and I were born on his birthday. When we were two, my little brother was born...four birthday kids at the same time, probably could not happen again in any family. It was always a large celebration as we matured into adulthood.
Every year, Mom baked a huge cake in a pan, she special ordered. She left the cake in the pan, cut it in half, and in half again. Each corner was decorated with the taste of each kid’s choice.
My husband and I were married when I was twenty. On August 9, 1965, he baked me my first birthday cake. I’m talking about a round, seven inches, two layer cake, that was baked and decorated for only me...not a square one large enough for four people to have l/4 sheet cake.
I’m not complaining. It was fun all those years to share the large cake with my brothers, but Pat’s struggles to bake and create me his master piece was, indeed, a labor of love. He made it from scratch, not a cake mix.
It took him all day. He had one of my friends pick me up and take me shopping so it could be a really big surprise. She called him twice, and he told her to delay our trip home a little longer. Finally, we got to go home.
“Happy birthday to you,” he sang when I entered the kitchen. He was so proud. Icing was dripping from the plate and perspiration was dripping from his face. But the cake was wonderful, and so was the surprise party he had planned.
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