It is 100% true.
I wasn’t wearing a jacket when I carried the boob cake along the shoulder of the West Side Highway during a cold night in January. All of the police officers were staring at me, or, more likely, at the cake. We hadn’t originally intended to go down the West Side Highway. My sister was driving the car and decided she wanted to be dropped off at our apartment on the west side before I delivered the cake to a friend on the east side of Manhattan. The boob cake was to serve as a combination Happy Birthday/Good Luck on your prophylactic mastectomy surgery/Yay, you’re getting implants! cake. My friend shares my slightly skewed sense of humor and love of cake, so making a boob cake was the perfect way to celebrate her birthday and impending surgery. I was really proud of the cake. I even used that weird raspberry flavored jelly candy for fake nipples and a pudding cake mix for extra bounce. It was that authentic.
The boob cake was created in my parents’ suburban kitchen. Their space was superior for cake baking/decorating over the tiny kitchen in my studio apartment, where my oven was too small to accommodate the height of the cake breasts. After cooling two measuring cups full of cake, I went to work sculpting and icing them to look more like breasts, topping them off with the raspberry jelly candy.
Transportation of the cake was best done by car, with the cakes nestled into a deep tray on my lap. This is how my sister and I found ourselves on the West Side Highway that dark, cold, Sunday night. We were mere feet from our 95th street exit when suddenly, the silver Toyota Rav 4 in front of us came to a full, abrupt stop, its tires smoking. My sister slammed on the brakes of our black Jeep Cherokee and inexplicably closed her eyes. I braced myself and the boob cake for the inevitable impact.
The crash resulted in the Toyota having a completely shattered rear window and smashed bumper. The entire front end of our Jeep was crushed into itself. We immediately phoned our parents and the police. The man from the Toyota came around to our car. He was in his late 20s, bespectacled, and had a Russian accent. “Are you girls ok?” he asked. Once we determined that no one was injured, he explained what happened: “A car was stalled out directly in front of me. Its lights weren’t on and there wasn’t a working street light above it. I didn’t see the car until I was practically on top of it.” We also learned the man was a doctor, a pediatric resident at a hospital in Queens. His car was two weeks old, the same age as his brand new driver’s license. Since it was freezing outside, and seeing as he no longer had a rear window to protect him from the elements, we invited the doctor into our car to wait with us until the police and our parents arrived. He accepted and hopped into the back seat.
Once he settled in, he took a good look at us. We had flesh-colored frosting all over our clothes, in our hair, on the roof of the car. Everywhere. The boob cake remained mostly intact, yet the frosting managed to find its way all over the interior of the car. “Oh,” exclaimed the doctor, seeing the corner of my tray, “You have a cake! You must be going to a party.” He stopped when he got a full view of the mounds on my tray, then rephrased his question, “You are going to a bachelor party?”
Before we could answer, our parents and (finally!) the police showed up. We all exited the car. I carried the boob cake across the West Side Highway, parading passed several police officers and a line of rubberneckers before reaching my parents’ car. Someone honked and hooted when they realized what I was carrying. The police officers stared for a second before returning to their accident report. My mom looked at the boobs. “I can’t believe they’re still intact,” she remarked, slightly in awe. “These boobs, they’re indestructible,” I replied.
P.S.S. To learn more about the Breast Cancer Gene, click here.
P.S.S.S. Be safe and healthy, go to second base with yourself this month and every month.