The thing about baking cake during Halloween season is it never goes as planned. You start off innocent, maybe even optimistic. “Just a small dessert,” you tell yourself. But two hours later, your kitchen looks like a frosting crime scene and you’re laughing like a mad scientist with a whisk.
It always starts with the eggs. You crack one, and it splatters on your sleeve like it’s trying to warn you. You ignore it. You’re determined. The spirits of sugar and butter whisper in the background, “Add more.” You obey, because you’re weak for cake.
The mixer roars to life, sounding way too loud for midnight. Somewhere outside, a cat screeches. Maybe it’s an omen—or maybe it’s jealous you’re making something better than cat food.
You pour the batter into the pan, and it looks perfect. Smooth, thick, the color of dreams. You slide it into the oven, proud of yourself. Then the smell hits—sweet, warm, a little sinister. It’s the scent of temptation.
Halfway through baking, you peek through the glass. The cake’s rising, but… so is your anxiety. It’s puffing up like it knows something you don’t. You mutter, “Stay even, stay even.” The cake responds by leaning slightly left. Rude.
When the timer dings, you grab your oven mitts like a hero about to face destiny. The cake comes out golden, fluffy, and suspiciously alive-looking under the moonlight. You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself everything’s fine.
But then—the frosting part. Oh, the frosting. It’s the real haunted part of cake-making. You start off neatly, but one swirl leads to another. Suddenly, your counter looks like a ghost threw a birthday party.
You get frosting on your hands, then your face, then somehow your elbow. You taste it, of course. Because, you know, quality control. Except now you’ve eaten half your icing, and the cake still looks naked.
You try decorating it with candy eyes and little bats, but they all slide off like they’ve seen something horrifying. You step back and look at your creation—it’s not perfect, but it’s beautiful in a “Halloween chaos” kind of way.
Then comes the slicing moment. You cut in slow motion, whispering a prayer to the pastry gods. The first slice looks amazing. You take a bite and nearly ascend. Sweet, fluffy, slightly possessed—everything you wanted.
You swear you hear a faint “mwahaha” in the distance, but that might just be your sugar high talking. You take another bite. The frosting is sweet revenge on all your stress.
By the third slice, you’ve accepted your fate. You’re not sharing. Ghosts can have crumbs. Humans must earn it.
You realize cake at Halloween isn’t dessert—it’s survival. It’s sugar-coated armor against chaos. It’s proof that no matter what’s haunting you, buttercream will always have your back.
Later, you find yourself standing in the dim kitchen light, fork in hand, frosting smeared like war paint. You look at your reflection in the dark oven door and whisper, “We did it.”
The cake doesn’t answer, but you swear it’s smiling.
Because in the end, Halloween isn’t about fear. It’s about frosting. And maybe a little madness.