If I Knew You Were Going I Would Have Baked You A Cake [FICTOID]

Who the cake was for was of less importance as to ///why/// it was baked. 

Chef Ivan Ivanovich normally handed off baking duties to the staff baker, but this cake was important. 

It was a birthday cake and he was baking it for luck. 

Not the luck of whoever's birthday it was that day -- pick any day at random and it's the birthday for over 22,450,000 people -- but luck for himself. 

“Why is it lucky for you?” the baker asked. 

“Because I am baking it,” Chef Ivan replied.  “As the initiator of the action, I am the chief beneficiary.”

“I've been baking birthday cakes most of my life,” said the baker, “and I haven't benefited from good luck.”

(This was true; the baker had herpes and venereal warts, three ex-wives, fourteen children receiving child support, a car that wouldn’t start, an overdrawn bank account, a lien on what little he still owned, and an overdue IRS bill, so luck was clearly not his friend.)

“That's because it is your job,” said Chef Ivan.  “You bake the cakes because you are financially rewarded to do so, not out of the generosity of your heart.” 

The baker -- thinking of the three ex-wives, fourteen children, and IRS agents who cheerfully wanted not just their pound of flesh but a couple of gallons of blood as well – said.  “You get paid for cooking.  Why should you benefit from baking?  It's pretty much the same thing.” 

“Because normally I don't bake,” said Chef Ivan.  “It's a rare thing when I do.” 

“Horse crap,” said the baker.  “You bake lasagna, you bake potatoes, you even bake Alaskas.  Ingredients and heat, that's all this is, cooking and baking.” 

Chef Ivan shook his head sadly -- if there's one thing all Russians are good at it’s expressing sadness -- and said, “You just don't get it, do you?  A cake is something unique and special, wholly apart from fried chicken or pasta.” 

“Pasta is made from flour just like cakes!” the baker roared.  He began glancing around the kitchen for some utensil to employ as weapon against Chef Ivan. 

Chef Ivan ignored this.  “Nobody makes birthday spaghetti,” he said.  “Well, maybe they do but it's not a thing, not a tradition.” 

“Are you saying if I baked birthday spaghetti my luck would change?” the baker said. 

“No, because birthday spaghetti isn’t how most people celebrate birthdays,” said Chef Ivan. 

“Neither are birthday cakes,” said the baker.  “They're primarily a product of western culture.” 

“Which makes them all the more meaningful,” said Chef Ivan. 

That prove the breaking point to the poor (literally) baker.  Grabbing a large kitchen knife, he lunged at Chef Ivan. 

Lacking a weapon of his own, Chef Ivan did the only thing he could do:  He hurled the freshly baked birthday cake at the baker's face.

Temporarily blinded, the baker fell past Chef Ivan and atop the stove.  A large pot of water boiled there, awaiting its spaghetti.  The baker overturned this on himself. 

Screaming in agony, the baker tried to find the kitchen refrigerator in hopes of cooling himself off.  Instead he yanked the spice rack off the wall, dusting himself with a cloud of spices that supercharged the pain from his scalded skin. 

He raced out of the kitchen and into the alley in the vain hope of finding some relief.  Instead he found -- or more accurately, it found him -- a garbage truck that grabbed him and crushed him before the indifferent trash crew could react. 

Chef Ivan shook his head sadly again.  “If only he could have baked a cake,” he said.

© Buzz Dixon