My siblings and I were allowed to select one cake from the book each year as a sweet signifier of aging. For the uninitiated, these were not regular birthday cakes. On offer in the book was a smorgasbord of treats: castle cakes with cone turrets; duck cakes with potato chip and popcorn garnish; racecars; ghosts; and one terrifying (sociopathic, in hindsight) clown.

There were cakes that were more props and décor than anything actually edible: empty egg shells and top hats for “Humpty Dumpty,” tiny plastic farm animals to breathe life into a zoo-themed cake, real-life needle and thread to adorn the “Sewing Basket.”

On these cakes, confectionary was transformed into inanimate objects like marshmallow tutus and Kit Kat piano keys. There were witch cakes, number cakes, cricket-pitch cakes. The preparation, assemblage and decorating time rarely fell under the four-hour mark.

After our decision was made, we would submit our requests to our astonishingly patient and imaginative Oma, who would — without complaint — exceed every expectation upon delivery.

She was the patron saint of birthday cakes.

I had a cake from this book nearly every year up until my 21st birthday (the flowery No. 4 reimagined into a sophisticated 2-1).