1.) Open Betty Crocker cake mix. Discover we have no vegetable oil. Use extra virgin olive oil instead. Mix all ingredients as described. Bake as described. Discover cakes are profoundly burnt. Let cakes cool one hour. Scrape off the burnt parts and move on.

2.) Open canned cherries for filling. Immediately slice open entire side of hand. Fail to find band-aide. Bleed all over burnt cake. Feel grateful it’s already pink. Scream for a bit. Press cherries onto bottom layer of cake.

3.) Make frosting. Discover we are out of actual ingredients. Search for tub of frosting everywhere in cabinet. Hit head inside. Decide to make frosting from butter and powdered sugar. Beat together with ancient 1940’s hand beater for 20 minutes as hand resumes bleeding and beater breaks. Proceed with a fork and vigorous rage until it is sort of less lumpy, but no, not really.

Add a dash of cherry juice to turn it pink, enjoying watching the frosting turn suspiciously grey instead. Move on.

4.) Carefully place second cake layer on first cake layer. Enjoy watching it fall into fifteen pieces. Curse Betty Crocker, whomever she was. Desperately try to reassemble top layer with my chin and the side of my face because I have run out of hands.

5.) Frost the cake, hoping the cosmetic damages will be minimized by the grey, lumpy butter-and-powdered sugar. Instead, notice the frosting’s weight causes the cake to literally fall apart.

6.) Grab a ladle. Dish incoherent cake into a bowl. Serve to happy husband, who remarks it is just like a syllabub before disappearing into an upstairs room. Vaguely tries to recall what the fuck a syllabub actually is, decides it’s probably British and that this must be a victory.

— an anonymous informant