The Cat Did It.

Dad’s mom curled up her pug nose at store-bought birthday cakes. They were pretentious and proof of a lazy house wife.

Mom’s mom saw those crumbling, precariously leaning homemade messes as proof of a husband who was poor provider.

Never the twain did meet.

The first store-bought cake in our house arrived when I was eight and the cake was not for me. My sister Vickie was turning six. Mom had just gone back to work. A dozen neighbor kids and both sets of grandparents were due to arrive at...

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