Cake in American society is frequently associated with various rites of passage. Whether you are turning 7 or 70, nothing says Congratulations like eggs, flour, butter, and sugar. Of course, some cakes are overlooked, considered symbols of gratuitous American excess rather than conveying the meaning  and significance of their more-timely cousins. To all of the cakes out there which are scarfed down instead of celebrated, this post’s for you.

Oh pre-wedding wedding cake, a cake by any other name would taste as delicious. Yet you are cursed to forever live in the shadows of a rehearsal dinner, consumed and discarded, lost and forgotten.  Do not feel ashamed of your plight. You were born as a pre-wedding wedding cake, never given the opportunity to show the world how magical you could make someone’s special moment. You are the poor, inner-city student of the cake world, but were never given the affirmative action frosting of All-American aspirations to live the dream. But never forget, oh disenfranchised cakes of the world, that the more delicious you are, the more likely your cakeson or cakedaugher will be served at an event worthy of respect and admiration of which you can be proud. Stay strong, oh cakes one and all, stay stong. Your consumption is not in vain.

Which of the following is the correct answer to this question?

A) C & A
B) D
C) E & C
D) D
E) There is not sufficient information given to decide.

Have fun.

In the house the meal is viewed,
The steak is cooked, the beer is brewed,
The pies are cooled, the flies are shooed,
And in the dark, the tale is bright.

Some truth is ever what we seek,
But when it’s found our souls grow weak,
The mind goes blank, the path was bleak
That brought us to this meal so crude.

But bit by bit and bite by bite,
Some madness serves to speed our plight
Into the wrong or brand new right,
The power of the strong o’er meek.

For in the barn the old cow mooed,
And on the hay the day seemed skewed,
The day the beast for seconds rued,
The day that turned too soon to night.

We chopped in half the luscious leek
And found inside a snidely streak.
The denouement precedes the peak
In this, the tale I once eschewed.

It’s not a poem to move, excite,
Or celebrate the strength and might
Of those who pass the human rite,
But just a tribute to the weak.

So now we dine; no longer speak,
The story’s yours to bend and tweak.
The beef’s a brood, the basil, blight,
But that’s the food we eat tonight.