It was the first week of December. As many headed home from work, I hurried to get downtown to the Bendix Theater within South Bend’s Century Center. It was Tech Week for United Youth Theatre’s production of Roald Dahl’s “Matilda the Musical!” As weeks of rehearsals were getting wrapped up, we’d have three days to make sure the show would flow smoothly with lights and sound. It was also a time for the young thespians to put on make-up and costumes, and to fully put the props to the test. The show would open on Thursday, and it had to be as flawless as possible.

I was officially the props designer, or the self-proclaimed “Prop Queen.” This is a position the art major in me couldn’t resist accepting. I’d done it months earlier for a run of “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat.” It was exhilarating to get my creative juices flowing, and I felt valued for my varied skills. Over the past few years my teenage son discovered his love for theater and I welcomed the opportunity to contribute to the team.

When Clare Costello, the Director of “Matilda” asked me if I’d be willing to do the props for her show, I tried to keep poised as I asked for more details of her expectations. We’d need a lot of props, including tons of books and toys, an Olympic hammer, a case full of British pounds, and a chocolate cake with a big chunk taken out of it. Only, it couldn’t be just any old chocolate cake. We needed to be able to make it disappear, as if it was actually being eaten. “It might collapse when it gets pushed down,” explained Clare, “or it might be an inflatable.” It was a prop after all. It couldn’t be real, and we’d need to be able to use it for several performances. I’d never seen this musical, so I really didn’t know what I was getting into, but I said I was up to the challenge.

With my list in hand, I shopped thrift shops and hardware stores, dug through my kids’ old toys, and gathered vintage items from my mother. I’d be thrilled with every find. My sister helped to design the money for our case. I crafted the Olympic hammer by spray-painting a soccer ball metallic bronze, and then attached it to a cord with a large screw-eye. As the weeks went by, many items got checked off my extensive list. However, I still pondered how I’d handle the cake scene.

In this scene, which takes place at school, young Bruce confesses to eating a large portion of the double chocolate cake which the cook baked especially for the headmistress, Miss Agatha Trunchbull. When Bruce complains of a stomach ache and produces his “biggest burp,” Miss Trunchbull smells the cake on his breath. She punishes him by telling him he has to eat the rest of the cake. The classmates sing a song about Bruce’s situation as he eats the cake. This is where it gets tricky. He looks like he’s eating the cake, but he’s really not, as it’s not a real cake. Oh, my! How am I going to pull this off?

Thinking back to my Girl Scout camping days, I recalled that I had an aluminum collapsible water cup. The walls of the cup were formed by pulling up on the outermost band that formed the rim. It contained additional bands that decreased in size that were attached to the bottom of the cup. As a kid, this telescoping device was a marvel. Maybe I could fashion something similar with a large plastic container that could be pushed down. It would be an engineering feat to achieve! I set to work carefully measuring, marking, then cutting old whipped topping containers into rings to test my idea. It didn’t work. Maybe I needed something taller or more flared. I tried another container. It was better, but it clearly was not the answer. I thought about modern collapsible silicone bowls. Some are made to flex like an accordion’s bellows. I wracked my brain. How would I make that work if I already had a section cut out of it? I was in trouble.

I turned to YouTube to see if I could find any ideas. In my search, I found a performance done by a theater in the State of New York, probably not too far from Broadway. They seemed to have resources. I watched the scene carefully. Then I poked around on their website. For a price, we could order their cake plans. Well, shoot! That wasn’t in our budget. I could tell that they had their cake on some kind of a hinged folding platform. The gears in my head started turning. I concocted a new plan of my own design. It was a little bit rough, but it seemed to work.

So, here we were on the first night of Tech Week. Unfortunately, I had another obligation that evening, but I met Orion, the boy who was playing the role of Bruce. Dressed in uniform, I figured he couldn’t be any older than 10-years. He seemed eager and bright. I gave him a quick tutorial on how the cake trick would work, and said that I’d be back a bit later. I hoped he’d understood my lesson. I prayed that it would work.

It didn’t work.

When I came back, I found the mangled remains of my project, and unfinished bits of cake. Orion had done his best, but the concept would need to be tweaked. I needed to create a somewhat smaller cake, and the trick platform had to be sturdier. Okay. I had until the next evening to make that happen. I picked up my project and took it home. I could do this. I would persevere.
The next night, with a wide open schedule, I came back with my reconstructed project. I met with Orion again and showed him my much-improved double chocolate cake prop. I had him test it, and show me multiple times that he understood how it would work. Excited, I assured him that he’d get through it this time.

Finally, the scene came. The classmates were all in their seats. Miss Trunchbull lectured the children about her stolen cake. That was when Bruce, so comically performed by young Orion, admitted that he’d eaten the cake. Then, the cook pushed in the cheery red cart with what was left of a double chocolate cake on it. It was our time. The lights dimmed, the spotlight was on him and the cart with the cake. The music started to play, and the classmates began to sing. I held my breath, gripped my seat, and watched.

“Consider a slice,

Or even two, Bruce…
Might have been nice,

But even you, Bruce,
Have to admit
Between you and it
There’s not a lot of difference in size….”

Orion methodically and discreetly “ate” the cake as the song went on. He seemed fairly relaxed, as he worked to finish the cake before the song was over. Then, Miss Truchbull came over and stopped him. I gulped, as the cake wasn’t done yet. She stuck her nasty finger in the frosting and licked it off her finger. Then, putting her other hand on top of his head, she lowered his face back down into the cake. The song resumed, and Bruce continued to eat the cake.

“B-R-U-C-E!”

Could he do it? Could he really finish the cake? I was thinking we were on the right track.

“We should call a truce, Bruce.

Just one more bit and have

Completely cooked the goose.

We never thought it was possible.

But here it is coming true.

We can have our cake and eat it…

“Aaaah….

“GO ON, BRUCIE!”

The song ended. Orion stepped back to reveal the empty cake dish! Those of us who were watching clapped and cheered. We did it! We really did it. I felt so elated. It wasn’t just me, it was us. I felt a certain kinship with this young boy who was working so hard to execute his job while he stayed in character. It was just fantastic!

That night I brought the cake home, made some more minor adjustments, and then took it back for the third and final day of Tech. Once again, Orion practiced the scene. It went off without a hitch, even better than the night before. When other children in the cast asked me how the cake worked, I knew we had successfully delivered the illusion.

I have found that success comes when one is willing to persevere.

For more information about the United Youth Theater upcoming shows, auditions and more https://www.uytinc.org/

When Art Imitates Cake by Karla Flaim Wirtz