This is the first thing out of my father's mouth when he walks through the door tonight: "What are you going to do with those? They're too big."
He's talking about the cake I'm making for Becky's bachelorette party tomorrow night. In less than twenty-four hours there's going to be a group of girls in Ontario, Canada who are going to a bunch of strip clubs and drinking a bunch of duty free alcohol and eating a bunch of penis cake. Penis cake that I lovingly made. Penis cake that, unlike the one that showed up at my twenty-fourth birthday, doesn't have the herps.
When my father leans over to examine the raw materials of the to-be cake--two eight inch rounds and a 13x9 sheet cake--he looks concerned. "You'll need to make those smaller," he says.
I already know this. But it's disconcerting to hear my father comment on the testicle size of a bachelorette penis cake. Mainly because I don't ever want to discuss penises--fake or otherwise--with my father. It's enough that I've had to listen to twenty minute discussions between he and my brother about the agony of getting the down-there business caught in a zipper.
But even though it's wrong and dirty and gross, I call my father into the room when it's time to shave down the outer edge of the rounds. "Help," I say. "Want to cut them for me?" I am nervous about taking too much, about chipping away at this cake's dignity.
My father hands me a cereal bowl. "Should be about right," he says, and it is. The fact that he knew this so easily is also disturbing.
The next time my father saunters into the kitchen--Deadliest Catch is on commercial--he looks at my progress and nods. I have the shaft cut out, the balls whittled down. There is, however, one important thing missing.
"Are you going to give your cake a pee pee head?" my father asks.
I am holding a knife when he says this. It's a miracle I don't chop my ears off right then and there. While I've never thought about it before, it's completely clear at this moment that the phrase pee pee head is a phrase a father should never say to a daughter.
"Dad!" I wail. "Gross!" But then I motion to the leftover cake scraps. "And you don't have to worry," I tell him. "I'm on it."
Twenty minutes later, after carving and positioning and frosting, I have the final product on the giant platter my father sawed for me. (Here's your penis platter, he'd said after bringing it in and setting it in the kitchen.) I call my father in, gesture to the finished product.
"That," he says, "is a magnificent dick cake."
Oh, and it is. It's a straight shooter, smooth, ample in both length and girth. It's a blank canvas just waiting for filthy sayings to be piped onto its shaft with decorating icing. That, however, will have to wait until we get to the hotel room and it doesn't need to be moved anymore. It's going to be glorious.