The Bite 008: I Woke Up 36, Hungry, and Mildly Offended by My Cake

Today’s my birthday. It started with good intentions.

I woke up 36, sun in my eyes, one sock on, and a deep craving for something I can’t eat anymore. That craving? Literally everything in a Wawa breakfast sandwich.

But fine. I’m mature now. Thirty-six is grown. Thirty-six reads labels. Thirty-six knows that “natural flavor” is a dirty little secret.

So I got out of bed, adjusted my imaginary crown and decided I’d make myself a birthday cake. A real one. From scratch. With love… and boiling water because TikTok said so and I’m in my reckless era.

That was my first mistake. Who wakes up and decides to bake on their own birthday? A woman with unresolved control issues and a mammal allergy, that’s who.

I gather my ingredients like I’m auditioning for a baking show where everyone’s mildly unhinged and food-sensitive.

• Almond milk? Check.

• Flax eggs? Check.

• Gluten-free flour that expired last December? Close enough.

I preheat the oven. I cue the playlist. I’m doing adult birthday vibes.

I am glowing… until I realize I forgot the boiling water.

TikTok swore it was the magic trick - the “secret ingredient.”

TikTok also told me I’d be a millionaire by now, so honestly, vibes are mixed.

I boil water in a mug like I’m at a sad college dorm tea party, dump it in the bowl, and the batter immediately turns into something that looks like a haunted milkshake. I bake it anyway. Obviously.

I’m not a quitter — just a woman on the edge of a food-based identity crisis.

Thirty-five minutes later, I remove what can only be described as a lukewarm vegan tragedy. It’s got the density of a rubber sandal and smells like wet cardboard and misplaced confidence.

I stand back, and stare at it like it’s a stranger who just insulted my mom.

I eat a bite.

It’s… weird.

I eat another.

Still weird.

I eat a third while Googling “can cake be chewy on purpose?”

My husband walks in, cautiously slices off a corner, chews for five full seconds like he’s waiting for a sign from God, then gives me the same voice he used when he said I didn’t look tired after childbirth: ‘Babe… it’s really… something.'

Then he did the thing you see in movies — the slow chew, the napkin hover, the discreet “I’m totally not spitting this out” hand block. It was like watching someone eat drywall in a Wes Anderson film. Beautiful. Traumatizing. Artistic. This is the man who once told me to ‘just put on a sweater’ instead of turning the heat up — and now he’s fake-enjoying chewy cake like he’s earning scout badges for emotional endurance.

This is not the birthday cake I wanted or planned. But it’s absolutely the one I’m owning.

Because here’s what no one warns you about turning 36, six days into a surprise meat allergy, baking a vegan cake with an identity crisis:

You either spiral, or you party. I picked both.

So here I am — full of questionably textured cake, watching the candle burn down like it owes me money, and writing this blog with one hand while the other orders $94 worth of allergy-safe snacks I’ve never heard of.

And while I can’t eat most of my ideal birthday dinners and desserts, I can still roast everything around me — including that sad pile of frosting-less sponge I baked this morning.

So yeah. I don’t know what tomorrow brings.

But today - this birthday?

It’s certified grass-fed, cruelty-free, and mildly unhinged.

Tomorrow we talk about the cake recipe.

Today, we survive with sass and snacks.

Happy birthday to me.

Dom

A.K.A. TickBitChick