“It’s not cake!” my wife screamed as the cleaver split the thermostat in our foyer. I pushed past her and sank my chef’s knife into the Ethan Allen sofa we had bought when we moved. Goose down spilled out of the gash. I looked at my wife and grimaced.
“Not cake!” our children screeched as they danced in the floating feathers.
Seven days prior, we had been selected for a new Netflix game show, Is It Cake? Extreme Home Edition. Once we’d signed the paperwork, we spent one night at the La Quinta off the interstate while the producers replaced one item in our home with a perfect replica made of cake. We had to find the cake within seven days in order to win the grand prize of $75,000. Our time would be up at sunset today, and the sun was getting very low in the sky.
“Hurry!” my wife shrieked. “Where is the cake?”
I tried to think. I had sledgehammered the pet memorial markers in the backyard to make sure no cake was hidden inside of them. My wife had crashed her Passat into my parked Honda Pilot to make sure the cars were not cake. After the children had gone to bed on Day 6, I had torn apart our modest collection of sex toys. Still no cake.