Genius Fan

‘Sublime Dumpiness’ is an aesthetic quality embodied in, among other things, pies, dogs, grandmothers…and books. It’s kind of rare, and you may never have seen it. You’ll know it when you’re confronted with it…as I did on Friday past, when my wife presented me with one of my favourite books of all time…which actually was a birthday cake in disguise. She had her auntie make it for me, with the words ‘Boswell’s Life of Johnson’ marked on the cover in gold food colouring. It had (past tense…it was long ago eaten) a brown leather cover with engraved design at top and bottom and with four sets of raised bands on the spine and white pages.

The whole thing had that antiquarian look that I love and proportionally, the dimensions (195 x 226 x 82mm) were absolutely perfect. It’s difficult to describe, Leonardo would understand. It’s not going too far calling it the cake equivalent of his Vetruvian Man. Vetruvian Cake. After my surprise settled, I reached for my ruler and my own Folio Society, 2-volume boxed set of the Life of Samuel Johnson (170 x 260 x 100mm) for comparison. It’s a fine line between ordinary and unremarkable and ‘sublime dumpiness’. We cut it open, starting at the bottom, and revealed a moist sponge, jam sandwich. The only way this could have been improved would be if it was entitled: The Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides with Samuel Johnson, LL.D...my favourite of Boswell’s books. But I scoffed slice after slice of that book, so no complaints.

So realistic was the book, I mean the cake, that several times I reached to grab it to shelve it back on the bookcase. But I caught myself before I sank my thumb and fingers into the icing. Actually I think there’s a business opportunity here: Cakes always take up room, but if we could stack them on our shelves like a book that would be a nifty space saver.