World’s best birthday cake taunts those who can’t eat it

Every February my family and I go to my sister’s house in Ripon for my niece’s birthday party, and every year we get shafted.


Years ago it sort of upset me, but it’s been happening so long now that every year it’s become even more laughable. It’s reached the point where I have to share it with others, at the slight chance my sister might be offended and get mad at me.

My sister, Kelly, and her husband, Brian, hold a small party for their daughter, Samantha, and the only other ones who attend are my mother and stepfather and my grandparents. The party is fairly typical in that it consists of a potluck lunch, time for socialization, a gift opening and the singing of “Happy Birthday,” followed by cake and ice cream. The last part of this party is where the shafting occurs.

After we sing “Happy Birthday” to Samantha, she blows out the candles on the cake. The cake always looks delicious, as the frosting appears to be sweet yet not too heavy, and the decorating by the professional baker is enticing enough to make you want to put your face in the cake like a 1-year-old child and pig out.

But year after year, after the cake taunts us, it’s taken away and replaced by homemade cupcakes. Huh? The explanation is a bit complicated.

Years ago, I’m not sure exactly when, Kelly decided to hold two parties for Samantha – one with her family and one with Brian’s family. Neither family is particularly large, and one party with both sides used to be acceptable.

The separation forces our family to party first. We arrive around noon, and it’s over around 2:30 p.m. Brian’s family arrives about an hour after we leave.

Going first means the cake becomes only an object of lust for us. As we look at it and develop a want for it, it silently laughs at us, knowing we’re never going to taste its probably sweet, luscious outer coating and fluffy, moist chocolate or vanilla inside.

I honestly hope it suffers a horrible death when Brian’s family devours it.

We are relegated to cupcake eaters because I believe Kelly is embarrassed by her family – meaning us – so she separated the two sides to keep them from mingling from each other, thereby eliminating any chance we could humiliate her. In some ways, I don’t blame her. My mother and I both like to make people laugh, so we’re not afraid to bust out stupid humor or embarrass ourselves. If I were her, I’d probably want to separate the two families, too.

In separating them, though, she only gave us more fodder to potentially embarrass her. Need proof? You’re reading it.

And she will probably, too. I post this to my blogsite, allowing family members and friends who have no reason to subscribe to the paper to read my ramblings. A couple of months ago I would never have written this, purely out of the fact I wouldn’t want to embarrass or upset her, but I now know people need to chance it every once in a while and do crazy things like this.

I hope she realizes I’m doing so out of humor. When I’ve told others about it, they’ve laughed. I even had someone suggest I fill a syringe with alcohol next year and inject the cake with a little spice. It would probably be the first time any one has ever spiked a child’s birthday cake.

That’s a little too mean for my taste, though. Just because I can’t eat it, doesn’t mean I’ll ruin it for someone else. And who’s to say we won’t get the good cake someday. I wouldn’t want anybody ruining it for me.
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Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Feb. 24, 2012.

Cheap cliffhanger could reveal someone is pregnant

I’m not a fan of cliffhangers. I think they’re cheap ploys to ensure somebody comes back to something. Television shows do it all the time, and films do too to guarantee the sequel’s success.


As a youngster, I remember watching “Superman” (the movie) for the first time during its network television premiere, and then being greatly disappointed when they split it over two nights, with the split occurring just after Clark Kent gained his superhero abilities. A little boy of only 5 or 6, I remember crying myself to sleep that night because I was desperate to find out what happened next. This was in the days before VHS, so in order to find out how it ended I needed to watch the second half when it was broadcast on television. Needless to say, I wasn’t able to see it, so I had to wait years to find out if Superman saved the day (I now realize it’s foolish to think it was even possible that he wouldn’t).

I encountered the ultimate cliffhanger several years later when I saw “The Empire Strikes Back” in the movie theater. The “Star Wars” sequel was the greatest movie I had ever seen (and it still is), but the ending left people hanging. Were the rebels going to rescue Han Solo from his carbonite prison? Was Luke going to finish his Jedi training? Was Darth Vader really his father?

People had to wait three years for the answers to these questions, and the wait was excruciating.

The wait to find out how any cliffhanger is resolved is usually painful, mainly because the payoff is weak in comparison to our hopes. “Return of the Jedi” was a worthy follow-up it seemed at the time, but in hindsight it could have been much better. Mark Hamill didn’t age well, Harrison Ford phoned in his acting for the film and the dialogue is laughable in places. Carrie Fisher in a gold bikini made the wait worth it, though. On the other hand, Jar Jar Binks was definitely not worth the 16-year wait for the next “Star Wars” film.

I bring up cliffhangers because I kind of left people with one last week in my column about my 10-year proposal anniversary to my wife, Jenny. To quote myself: “The next 10 years should be interesting, too. But I’ll address that next week.”

Why will they be interesting? What more can this loud mouth tell us about his family that he hasn’t already told us? Enough already about that kid of theirs?

Well, if you don’t like me writing about my family, you better stop reading this column because my family is about to get bigger.

Not bigger in the physical sense, although the way Braden eats that’s definitely possible, but bigger number wise. After trying for years, and being told it’s most likely not going to happen, Jenny, Braden and I will welcome a new baby to our family in August. That’s right, I’ll have one more Steuck to write about.

We learned shortly before Christmas Jenny was pregnant; Mother Nature gave us a Christmas present we really wanted but thought we’d never get. We thought this because several doctors and nurses have told us the chances of Jenny getting pregnant again were slim to none because she had an ovary removed several years ago due to endometriosis.

When I told her to get a pregnancy test after complaining about several possible symptoms, she laughed at me. Several days later, after realizing I might be right in my guess about her problems, she did. Two positive tests later, she realized it would be time to start coming up with some baby names.

We had Braden’s name fairly early, although we didn’t tell anybody.

We have several possibilities for this baby. They are..., well, come back later to find out.
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Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Feb. 17, 2012.

Ten-year anniversary practically began by dipping head in tomato paste

Sunday, Feb. 12, marks an important anniversary in my life. Ten years ago on that date I proposed to my wife, Jenny, while at a restaurant in Ripon.


At the time of my proposal we had been dating for nearly 10 months, but we had known each other for four years. We had met at a wedding in 1998, and I had liked her immediately. She was a bridesmaid and I was an usher, and during rehearsals the night before we flirted with each other, despite the fact she had a boyfriend (a complete loser in my opinion, so he didn’t really count).

We flirted more at the wedding, and danced together during the reception. The next day I even went to the gift opening in hopes of seeing her. I’m not normally the type of guy who goes to a gift opening, as I’d rather dip my head in tomato paste than watch someone else open gifts. My decision to attend the gift opening was noticed by my family who whispered about it to each other, as they tend to do when someone who isn’t married by the time he is 20 as he they think he ought to be is taking notice of a single girl.

She could tell by the whispering that I must have been interested in her, so she told her boyfriend to amuse himself after he called her in an attempt to get her to ditch the gift opening and go out with him and his friends.

The boyfriend kept me from asking her for her phone number, as I figured she’d say no if I asked. That didn’t stop me from asking someone else for her number, just in case I decided to become the type of guy who doesn’t care about boyfriends.

Several weeks later my grandmother told me she had heard Jenny was disappointed I had never called. Fearless learning this information, I called 20 minutes later. She made it clear she had a boyfriend, though, but she’d be happy to go out as friends. Much later, after I had told her what my grandmother had said, she noted she never said anything of the sort. Clearly, my grandmother was up to some Betty White tactics in getting me to be rather youthful.

We went out and saw “There’s Something About Mary,” and hung out a number of times as friends. I wanted more than friendship, especially after realizing her boyfriend was an even bigger loser than I had originally thought and that he didn’t appreciate her as well as he should have.

I even made a mix tape of songs I thought would swoon her: “Thunder Road” by Bruce Springsteen, “I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend” by the Ramones, “Shelter from Storm” by Bob Dylan. The Ramones song probably wasn’t subtle enough in its message because it frightened her enough to prevent her from listening to the tape.

We became good friends, and I stuck by her through the end of her relationship with her boyfriend. She wasn’t ready for me, though. I was already a college graduate working a full-time job and she was only a sophomore in college. Unable to accept that decision, I told her I couldn’t be friends anymore.

We didn’t talk for more than six months. I met another girl and we dated for several months. When it became clear that relationship wouldn’t work, I called Jenny one day to apologize for my behavior and to tell her I’d like to be friends again.

However, she was skeptical at this point, and in school, so our conversations were limited. Over the next few years we saw each other a few times, and talked occasionally, but our friendship was just that, friendship.

As she neared graduation, we met some friends at a bar in Wautoma during her spring break and enjoyed the evening together. She called me the next day to tell me she realized on the way home that night she had feelings for me.

Those were words I had wanted to hear for three years.

After dating all summer, fall and most of the winter, I asked her father for permission to marry her. I knew I would get a “yes,” as he was pushing her to date me for the years we were just friends.

I popped the question at Michael’s in Ripon, while we were looking for an apartment we would share together. Two days before Valentine’s Day, she never expected it, although I knew she had wanted it, based on all the hints she had been dropping in the months prior to my proposal.

The last 10 years have been the best ones in my life. We’ve shared plenty of good, and not-so-good, experiences, had a son we adore, bought several houses, moved five times and pursued even more education to hopefully better our lives.

The next 10 years should be interesting, too. But I’ll address that next week.
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Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Feb. 10, 2012.

‘Alcatraz’ fools shouldn’t be allowed to board ferry

A little over a year ago I visited Alcatraz while my wife and I were in San Francisco, Calif. Three weeks ago, Fox debuted a new J.J. Abrams (“Lost,” “Fringe”) television series, “Alcatraz,” which tells the “real story” of the prison island’s last inmates in 1963. When I visited the island, nothing in the tour mentioned anything about this “real story,” probably because it’s completely fictional.


Apparently other people don’t understand the difference between fact and fiction, though, as Parks Services representatives have told members of the media they’ve caught people sneaking into closed areas on the island looking for the “secret” control room featured in the television show.

I wouldn’t think this difference would be hard to figure out. In the television show, the last inmates were not put in other prisons when Alcatraz was closed, but instead mysteriously vanished. Nearly 50 years later, they started reappearing – at the same age they were in 1963 – with many of them resuming the crimes they had committed many years prior.

Part science-fiction, part procedural crime thriller and part time-travel story, “Alcatraz” is about as real as “Star Wars,” as only in a galaxy far, far away could any of this have actually occurred. Like “Star Wars,” though, it’s fun fiction that’s meant to let our imaginations explore realms of different possibilities. Unlike “Star Wars,” it’s only mediocre, as it leans far too close to repetitive “CSI” territory than it does to out-of-this world “Lost” and “Fringe” territory that Abrams is best at doing.

Because some people don’t understand the difference between fiction and reality, Alcatraz has now posted signs on the island that read: “The TV show Alcatraz is fictional; many areas it depicts are not real. Closed areas protect you, historic structures and nesting birds.”

They should have just posted a sign that said “All stupid people should get back on the boat. We don’t want to be responsible for you.”

In fact, the Alcatraz tour groups should weed these people out before even boating the ferry. As a federal island, security measures limit what people can take to the island, and everybody has to go through several checkpoints before boarding. One more stop should be included in which somebody quizzes each boarder with one question: “Do you expect to see Hurley at Alcatraz?” “Yes” answers mean no entry.

When I told my wife about the stupidity of some people visiting Alcatraz, she quickly pointed out I’m not much different. “Well… it isn’t that much different than someone recreating a pose from ‘The Rock’ for a photo op,” she said. “It’s a blurred line between fiction and reality.”

She was referring to a photo I had her take of me pretending to hold some flares with the skyline of San Francisco in the background from Alcatraz, much like Nick Cage did in the 1996 film.

“These people are looking for something that doesn’t really exist,” I argued. “I was recreating something that exists.”

“And you were pretending to be something that isn’t real,” she said. “The movie exists, but the story was fictional. So in essence, you were imitating fiction, as are they. You know you can’t win this argument.”

“No. They are literally looking for something that doesn’t exist because they think it does exist,” I said.

“Or so they say,” she said.

At that point I realized I shouldn’t separate fact from fiction. The fact is I was never going to win this argument. I never do. Winning would be fiction.
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Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Feb. 3, 2012.