MY POLISH EASTER CAKE CAPER

My Polish Easter Cake Caper

By Sherry Miller

I wish family and friends would stop trying to make this story a joke. I already know that this is NOT a funny story. In fact, it’s very serious. If you’re Polish, you may get it. If not…I’m going to tell it anyway. What’s true is… well… I studied journalism. So, doesn’t that mean I always tell the truth. The problem is this happens every year. On a special Polish holiday. And I still can’t figure out why no one can solve the mystery.

Easter eve and I’m shifting from side to side. I will present the facts from Easter last year to my family and friends as they meet in my parent’s parlor – our biggest Easter gathering yet. Because of the caper. Because everyone’s intrigued, more and more engaged, every time I tell it. A mystery everyone wants to solve. Be the hero. Soon we’ll have an auditorium of friends and family to celebrate if it’s not solved soon. So, this year I vow to be the one who gets to the heart of the Easter Cake Caper. I have a lamb of a chance. Ha. Ha. Maybe it’ll be fun.

It’s a caper tale that’s more like crime fiction. With slippery fingers and sleight of hand. A little forefinger-thumb theft. With a twist in an Alfred Hitchcock kind of way. You know…at the end? A prank and prankster thing; a who-done-it. And this prank that’s gone on once a year, every year? It involves Polish customs. My heritage.

I look at the concerned faces. Brows pulling straight together on foreheads. One cousin even has a paper and pencil to jot down notes. What did I expect? I started this. Because I want it solved once and for all.

So…how do I do this? They’re all staring…waiting. I’ve been guilty about telling ethnic jokes. Making fun of my family; laughing until my belly almost busts. But that’s okay. Because I’m Polish and that makes it double okay. My favorite make-fun-of-the-Poles jokes are the ones

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where I perform, act it out. Like Charades. Unlike the typical one-liners, “How many Poles does it take to screw a lightbulb in?” then letting the answer tumble out, “That’s easy. Three. One to hold the bulb and two to turn the ladder.”

Or, the adult one: “Did you hear about the gay Polak? He slept with women.” Or did you hear about the cab driver who asked his Polish passenger to check if the signal lights on the car were working. The passenger steps to the front of the vehicle. “Well are they?” the driver asks. The passenger replies, hesitating between each quip. “Now they’re working.” “Now they’re not.” “Now they’re working.” “Now they’re not.”

I give these jokes three stars with a weak heh-heh thrown in. I just don’t get what’s so hysterical about the one-liners. They last but two seconds. So… I decide to put a little more Polish sausage suave and cabbage interest into the mix. Spice it up.

My favorite is Polish joke is…tah-dah…an act. I stand before the group who scrunch their faces, eager, pained faces, waiting…and I start. Holding my hands over my ears, I stomp with my left foot, then with my right. Repeat. I stomp, pick another spot carefully, and stomp again.

I’m met with, “What? Are you nuts? What are you doing?’

“Don’t ask,” I answer. “I’m busy. This is life and death. Can you wait ‘til I’m done?”

“But this is so weird.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’m practicing. For my new job.”

“Okay, what is it?” my cousin Pee Wee demands.

“Don’t you know?” I tease. Then I emphasize. “I’m a Polish mine detector.”

“A what?” my brother says it so loud. “Not my sister.”

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“Wait. Haven’t found the bomb yet.” I slap my cheeks and suck them with air. As my hands fly out, I release air from my mouth. “Pa-Pow!! “Pa-chew!”

They roar at the punchline. Still, when we Polish get together, we’re mindful to keep our specialty jokes soft landings. And because I once worked for an airline, I can tell a Polish airline joke. I have permission. Like how you can tell you’re on a Polish airline? Because pilots don’t need wheels to land their jets. Too expensive. Pillows strap on easy and they’re softer.

They stare at me now.

“We’re hungry. Get to the point.”

“Pointy lamb ears, you mean?” I giggle.

“Yeah. And they’re left unattended. Anyone could—"

“Yeah, we’re all hungry. For some lamb loin. And cake. If there’s any leftover that is,” Aunt Janice giggles.

Okay. Like I said it’s not funny. Especially since this goes on every year. I’ll explain. To the Polish, Easter is special. We’re grateful to Jesus, rising from the dead. Like these jokes are. And we honor Him as the Lamb of God.

Lamb Cake, a tradition started in Poland for this particular holiday, is now popular all over the world. Seriously. Besides traditional lamb, always pink in the middle, served with mint sauce, sweet potatoes, asparagus, and mashed potatoes with butter and sour cream. But the inside joke for our family is that for more than ten years, this prank has more and more upset our festivities. I was thirteen when it began.

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Every year, after Mom takes the perfectly formed lamb cake out of the pan, swirls on the butter coconut frosting, sets the raisin eyes and chocolate chip smiley mouth, she gives it center stage on the kitchen counter. Well…ten years ago, as we were about to savor the sweet rich crumbs, we stopped in horror. Half-way through cutting slices, our eyes grew wide. I gasped. The lamb’s ears were missing! Viciously torn off so pieces of coconut hung in shreds in the

empty holes on each side. Here’s the story.

“Who bit off those ears? Mom asks, incredulous, She taps her hands impatiently, sitting on her hips.

One by one, we chime in. Sounding innocent as church bells.

“Not me.”

“Not I.”

“Maybe it was BEBE,” my younger brother offers.

“Bebe, did you do this?” I stare at our Beagle dog.

“BEBE!” Mom yells sharply. “Did YOU do this?”

I raise the lacy tablecloth and peer under the table at our sheepish Beagle puppy we’ve had for three years. She hangs her head and whines. There are no crumbs I can see on her fur. No evidence, really. So… the dog ate the homemade cake?

“But it doesn’t look like big dog bites,” my older brother tries to persuade us. “And wouldn’t it be huge. Like a complete rip? Not much cake left? That kind of thing?” he continues.

Bebe perks up, tail wagging, when we switched the blame from her to someone else.

“No, it was a tear-off! My younger brother, the clow, the youngest, announces. Everyone

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turns toward him, glaring, suspicious. Immediately, he adds, “Don’t look at me. I said I didn’t do it.”

When eyes turn to me, I state matter-of-factly, “Why would I do that? I like looking at it first. After all, Mom, you always make the frosting to match the color of my new Easter outfit every year. It’s too pretty to ruin it right away.”

We turn to Dad who has been known to taste-test. Sipping stew and sneaking “just an inch.”

“I only tried the shrimp,” he stammers. He had an uh-oh look on his face. He just confessed to

stealing some shrimp cocktail. And that’s not funny. He’s so in trouble with Mom.

“Sometimes the ears stick in the pan,” I suggest. ”You know, leaving a little of the dough in the mold?”

“What?”

I’m back in the room with relatives. In the present. And they’re all staring. “Just thinking back a little,” I say. “I zoned out.”

“There’d be residue then,” I finish.

“But your Mother always showed us that the lamb mold is clean at the ear part. No dough,” Dad interjects.

“Of course, I know how to get to the bottom of this. My journalism training and all. I ask questions. And I always get to the truth. I always tell the truth.”

“The reason we’re finally having this meeting before we even begin the feast is to solve this mystery once and for all,” Dad adds. He counts all the heads. “Everyone’s here.”

Brother Jimmy, the older one, chimes in, “We should’ve solved this by now. So…are we

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taking turns? You know, watching?”

“Yes,” I say. “Let’s go over the likely suspects..

I pass out pieces of paper. I see relief on a few faces. Distant relatives, who are now part of our Easter, don’t see their names on the list relax, arms rest on laps and legs stretch out long.

“Roll Dragnet,.” I shout, then hum the show’s tune, “Ta-ta-dah. Ta-ta-ta-ta-DAH!”

Everyone reads silently. I stare at the paper.

The Suspects:

My crazy clown younger brother, Biff. The one who wouldn’t hesitate to put a lampshade on his head and dance around half-naked to “Mary had a little Lamb.” Well, not quite unclothed. Though he once actually pranced around in his underwear to “Hot Stuff.” And he bit a bottle and swallowed a few glass pieces. Or so he says.

My middle brother, Jim, the oldest of the two. The independent one who stole pennies out of my Dad’s change purse. “It adds up,” he’d say. And “he’ll never miss it. See? Here. It took me months to get this dollar bill.” Okay, is that honest? Would he lie about lamb cake ears? Except that he never liked lamb cake so much. He preferred chocolate ice cream.

Take my Dad, though. He was always the disciplinarian. If he committed the crime, wouldn’t he have to admit it? What’s he teaching his kids growing up if he lied? He’s a city boy and did belong to a gang. One of those Fonzie type gangs. No motorcycles but they hung out on the corner watching all the girls. But his own Dad, Grandpa, was strict. He punished lying quick and sharp. With a few belt raps on butt. Or a smack with a

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wooden spoon on fleshy fingers could be quite painful. Nah! My Dad would fess up. Or he’d have nightmares. Guilt, right?

Then there’s my Mom. Honest, kind. A country girl at heart sucking on the ends of Honeysuckle stems. Once she told a lie to a girlfriend. About how her new dress looked great. She just didn’t tell her a button was loose. The dress caught on something, ripped, and part of it fell off. Her shoulders were exposed. Feeling responsible, my Mom expressed her guilt for at least a year.

Here it is Easter again. And I’m determined I will reveal who did it. My Mom bought a ready-made lamb cake this year. That’s no fun. But it does have ears. So…my plan is to camp out at the dessert table, watching carefully. The real perp doesn’t have a chance if someone’s always watching, right?

So here I sit…the only time I took my eyes off the lamb cake was to swallow the last pink piece of lamb steak. Umm-yum. Still… I completely let my guard down when several family members rise from chairs and couches to try the desserts. The lamb cake is alone with me in the kitchen. Some come shuffling in.

Noooo! I jump up and order everyone out. “Wait! Digest your food first! Have another glass of White Zin. No hurry. I’m watching it.”

After a while, I pretend to go to the washroom. I even slam the door shut and jiggle the lock. I’ll see and feel out the culprit. I’ll check the mirror. See a reflection. I’ll be ready. I ease open the door and slip back into the kitchen. A mirror. A culprit. I see my face.

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This will be the best Polish joke ever, right? I slip into the wooden table chair, stretch out my legs. I stare at the lamb cake. The ears are still intact and it’s 8 p.m. A record. I glance in every direction. I hear chatter and laughter. Are they telling polish jokes out there? I’ve heard them all. They’re not funny anymore. But what I’m about to do to this cake so no one can steal not even a chocolate chip off the smile is the best comedy of all.

A smile pulls up the corners of my lips. I reach over to the lamb cake. It looks real good. I can’t wait to taste it. It’s a tradition, isn’t it? For ten years. Just like the lamb ears ends up a missing mystery caper every year. Thumb and fore-finger theft. A lick the finger tips clean theft. Leave no trace.

I curl my fingers, swipe a bit of the frosting, touch it to my tongue and let it ooze down my throat. Yum. Purple this year. To match my outfit and hat. Lavender and coconut flavors linger. Tradition. Of course.

And I…uh…will stick to tradition. I quickly, as a thief, reach out and twist at one ear and then reach for the other, twisting it off. I swallow one lamb ear, gulping it down, then the other one. I lean back in my chair, satisfied. Then I sleaze out of the kitchen and join the jokes in the living room.

“Good-d-d E-e-even-ning,” I say, Hitchcock style. “Cake’s fine, to tell the truth. And the ears were good, I confess.” I lick my lips. I hesitate for a long time. “And I confess…that I can’t resist joining you. Anyone else want to watch the ears in my place? If they’re still there?” I giggle. They giggle. Some slyly smirk, shaking their heads like they know something. Knew something all along.

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I play act. Do the Polish mine detector bit. I stomp and stomp, hands over my ears. It’s really funny. Maybe they caught on. To the joke. Maybe they didn’t.