Cody Thompson, Richmond, IN

It was a sunny July afternoon. My friend, Leah, had a birthday party coming up later that evening. She's a fan of the Beatles so I decided to bake her a cake that looked like a big green apple. Having viewed several episodes of "Ace of Cakes," I thought to myself that I could make this cake.

I went to my Grandmother's house. She has an excellent kitchen for baking and a vast array of ingredients; I was on a tight budget. I picked an apple cake recipe from her book. Everything was going smoothly, but I noticed this batter was thicker than any other I had previously encounter. It didn't take long for my electric mixer to shoot sparks and fill the air with the scent of burning plastic and ozone.

I had to bake three cakes because I intended to stack them and carve a three-dimensional apple shape. After baking the first cake I realized that there was another oven in the basement. I took advantage of this second oven to speed up the process. As the cakes lay in the oven I massaged my forearms, alleviating the muscle cramps caused by hand mixing that dreadful doe. The timer went off and I pulled out the second of the three cakes. Upon my arrival in the basement the scent a burning cake hit my nostrils. I should have known that the 1985 oven that sat in the basement wouldn't preheat to the correct temp. I didn't care; I decided if it looked good that I wouldn't care about how it tasted.

I stacked the cakes and was surprised to find that it weighed like 15 pounds. Oh well, time to shape it. I carved the cake into a robust, apple shape and proceeded to ice it (with my homemade icing). Much to my dismay, the cake split and tumbled onto the counter. A total of six hours was spent to create 15 pounds of cake crumbs. I wanted to throw the stupid cake away, but my Grandmother insisted on smashing the crumbs into a pan and icing it. It turned okay, but that devilish cake wasn't finished with me yet. As I was taking it out of my car, the lid slipped off of the cake pan and my hand thrust right into the middle of it. My parents asked what I was holding and what was on my hand. I responded, "A d*** cake and I don't want to talk about it."