I've done a fair amount of cooking for large groups over the years, and so some of my all-time favorite food disasters were on a grand scale.

Many years ago I baked a wedding cake for two good friends and their 250 closest friends and relations. Of course, I started the week before, baking and freezing the layers, but my oven was too small to handle the bottom layer (imagine if you will a pan that will hold the batter for 12 large layer cakes.)So I took the pan and ingredients to my parents' house to use my mom's oven. (Where did you think I learned to cook for crowds?) I was particularly glad to go because one of my sisters was visiting with her family from Texas, where they lived at the time, and we were eager to visit with each other. Other family members and friends had gathered, and my mother was pleased to be able to show everyone her brand-new, installed-that-week, kitchen carpet."I'll never have to scrub this floor on my knees again," said she.

I went into the kitchen, duly admired the carpet, and set to work on the cake.Meanwhile, my dad had decided it was imperative to have ice cream (this makes perfect sense to anyone who knows my father) and had headed to the store. Suddenly, the front door flew open and in came my dad, dripping blood from a rag-wrapped hand. On the way to the ice cream, he had spotted a jar of hot fudge, which of course he picked up, and then proceeded to slip on a wet spot and land on his hand on the glass jar. My mother, who is a nurse, took one look and bundled him off to the emergency room for stitches, with the whole circus in tow. My sister opted to stay behind with me; we got the batter into the pan and the pan into the oven, and then sat down in the kitchen to chat while it baked.

After a few minutes, my sister, who was seated facing the oven, suddenly focused past my shoulder with a look of horror. I turned to see chocolate (did I mention it was chocolate cake?) batter pouring out around the edge of the oven door. I leaped up, grabbed potholders, and opened the oven to a cascade of bubbling batter. I tried to grab the pan and pull it out, but batter oozed onto my wrist, and with a shout I flipped the pan. Chocolate batter went everywhere. My sister and I looked at each other in horror, and then laughed so hard that we had to sit on the floor, where our poor long-suffering mom found us, still helplessly laughing.

We had to take the oven apart and hose it down in the yard to clean it, and I'm afraid the carpet, which lucky for me was brown, was never quite the same. We think I probably lost track in the confusion over my dad, and put the baking powder in twice. I baked another gigantic layer, it tasted great, and the couple is still together. My family, however, will never let me forget.