© 2004 Brian Hodges - Please do not remove the copyright from this essay

’ve always been laid back when it comes to dining with friends and family.  I don’t fuss over which restaurant we go to.  I don’t send my meal back if it’s cold or disgusting or not what I ordered.  And if a friend wants to make some weird vegan dish, I eat it politely and take the indigestion like a man.  People tell me I’m a pushover, but I’d rather just enjoy the company than worry about eating exactly what I want.  In my entire life, there have been only two glaring exceptions to this easy-going dining philosophy: pizza and birthday cake.

The summer before I left for college, I went out with my girlfriend and her sister to an old style pizza parlor they liked.  As inevitably happens when pizza is involved, there was discussion over what to put on top.  I was just savoring every young male’s dream of being out with a hot girlfriend and her hot sister, so I said, “Sure” when they asked if mushrooms were okay.  I hate mushrooms.  Always have.  And sure enough, after politely choking down one and a half slices, I was too sick to continue indulging my sister threesome fantasy. 

That was the day I realized there are certain things you just can’t be polite about, and in the future I made sure to always temper my agreeable nature with, “…but no mushrooms.”  It was an easy leap to make.  After all, who would begrudge somebody over a pizza topping?  The birthday cake issue was something else entirely. 

I was visiting family with my new non-mushroom-loving girlfriend the day I turned nineteen.  At my grandparents’ house, we ate a bountiful dinner of salad, lasagna and loads of garlic bread.  Just as my stomach started tearing at the seams, I heard the opening strains of “Happy Birthday.”  I put on a big fake smile and mentally prepared my bursting stomach for the gigantic ice-cream cake my grandmother placed in front of me. 

Two days later, we went out to Chilis with my girlfriend’s family.  After stuffing ourselves with fajitas, quesadillas and baby back ribs I loosened my belt, cursing myself for eating too much again.  That’s when I heard the rhythmic clapping and the entire Chilis wait staff gathered around our table singing, “Happy happy birthday from all of us to you – HEY!”  They placed a slice of ice-cream cake the size of a large grapefruit in front of me – a solitary candle poking out the top. 

I started to sympathize with bulimics that day.  On the last day of our vacation, after two veggie deluxe pizzas with my uncles (sans mushrooms) and yet another round of ice-cream cake and “Happy birthday to you,” I did more than just sympathize. 

Did I mention that I hate ice-cream cake?  I hate it more than I hate mushrooms.  It’s that combination of fake ice-cream with fake Crisco-filled frosting and those disgusting little crunchy things on top.  Yet I couldn’t come clean about this the way I did about the mushrooms.  How do you tell somebody who just sang “Happy Birthday” to you that their cake fills you with the need to purge? 

Unfortunately, I ended up marrying into a family that loves ice-cream cake.  Loves it!  And it’s a big family with lots of birthdays.  At first I just drank coffee for dessert, but as my own birthday approached, I knew I wouldn’t be able to live this polite little lie forever.  They would certainly notice if I didn’t eat my own birthday cake.  So one day, at yet another birthday party, I revealed to them my true ice-cream cake feelings. 

“What?!?” they all shouted.  “How can you not like ice-cream cake?  It’s so good with the frosting and all the little crunchy things on top!  How can you not like ice-cream cake?!?” 

It was a serious issue for this family.  I almost didn’t get my father-in-law’s permission to marry his daughter because of this flaw in my character.  But when my birthday rolled around, we celebrated vomit-free with a delicious devil’s food cake – ice-cream on the side.

It’s amazing how the truth really does make everything better.  These days I can eat in peace, enjoy the company of friends and family and rest securely in the knowledge that neither mushrooms nor cake nor projectile vomiting will ever come between us again.