Nobody likes being told by a supermodel how to bake a cake.
A beautiful supermodel who is also the perfect housewife, trading up for healthy ingredients and producing the cake to complement the most beautiful little party.
The perfect mother. And a mother attached to one of the world’s most recognisable faces/bodies/dimples.
I don’t buy it.
Well then how do I see the birthday unfolding? I imagine it to have been a beautiful little party where the small gathering ate a ridiculous cake from which the fun had been sucked. I imagine it to have been prepared by the personal chef from a recipe provided by the personal dietitian and that when the cute-as-can-be babe let forth a huff and a puff aimed at the handful of candles adorning the cake, it mistakenly knocked the supermodel clean from her feet with its baby-force. And then smiled at its nanny.