A Cake For Me

As autumn came and went this year, I discovered that my girlfriend, my single mom girlfriend buried a knife so far in my back I can't even reach the handle; that innuendo remains the sharpest weapon; that sadly, even if you cry until you cannot open your eyes, you won't die of dehydration. I learned the hard way (clearly, it's the only way I learn anything!) that your true friends are the ones that know where the skeletons are, and sometimes, they helped you hide them in the closet. They're the ones that can sit in your house, when you shrink into a ball of nothingness, laying on the floor of your closet in the fetal position, and bring you the only thing they know will make you feel better: cake.

Especially when she has to sneak it in the house past Mommy Dearest, who barred any gluten containing item entrance. FYI: comfort food is not a spaghetti squash, not fully cooked in the microwave, and lightly salted.

Love is cake. Frosting optional.

However, if it's going to be ice cream cake, it needs to be cake with ice cream - none of this ridiculous crunchy bits buried into two layers of frozen dairy product covered with the thinest layer of frosting imaginable. Frosting so sugary, teeth ache when ingested.

No, it should be the Strawberry Snowflake cake, with buttercream frosting, real strawberries snuggled into the four layers of light, spongy vanilla cake. Or the denser, Tough Love Cake - the sweet potato cake, with dried cherries, liberally coated in orange kissed cream cheese frosting. Lemon curd torts, three berry pies, the glaze so glossy and smooth, it resembles a lake, first thing on a calm morning, sunlight floating on still water. Cookies will do in a pinch, I suppose; but only the brandied shortbread, thin, crispy, so delicate they melt on the tongue, tiny linzer cookies, so fussy to make, proving that all good things are worth the effort.

I've baked for boyfriends, and children, girlfriends and neighbors; I've baked for new babies, showers, birthdays and a few funerals. Mag's pointed out, rather carefully, I might add, as though I was so fragile I could shatter at any moment - not a far cry from the truth, I suppose - that for all the baking I did for others, I stopped baking for me. Elemental, you might think; but somehow? As weeks passed into months, and then into years, the mixer sat unused in the corner, cookbooks and cake plates tucked up high, collecting dust on the shelf; flour and baking powder actually past their use by date. There was no butter in the house, chocolate chips conspiscously absent - and the only one who didn't notice was me.

Of course, to be honest, I didn't notice a lot of things - but then, as with all seasons, that too waned into the cold, harsh light of winter, a cold so biting even footie jammies couldn't warm me, too cold for snow to fall, the landscape still harsh, unyielding. The snow finally arrived, bringing with it the crisp promise of the new year, of sorting through things I'd thought best left alone, of discovering that there lay a strength and a warmth in me, I was sure I'd lost.

I went to the store, wandering down the baking isle, as though falling back into the arms of an old lover, heart pounding, afraid of losing my touch, afraid of so many choices, that heaven forbid, I'd start this project, only to find that when I looked in the mirror, I still didn't see anyone I knew. Starting with flour, I picked up the bag, hefting it in one hand, going to the sugars next, vanilla swiftly following, chocolate chips, dark, semi-sweet and white snugged up next to pistachios, dried berries, and the ever necessary cream of tartar. Surer hands picked up and discarded plain cupcake panties, opting for the pink plaid ones instead - pink plaid! Surely, designed for me - peeked through the pan selection, only to find I was better stocked at home.

Flour dusted footsteps led through the check out counter, back to the house, into the basement, to the boxes I'd pushed aside two years ago when we moved, as I couldn't face losing my beloved kitchen, my dream house. Pulling out pans, rolling pins, cookie cutters and the lemon zester someone once special to me found at Crate and Barrel, I carried them upstairs with shaky hands.

The first silky handful of flour measured the perfect cup; double sifting it into a drowsy, snowy heap on waxed paper, shakes nearly gone, I flipped through all the cakes I've baked through the years, to find one to bake only for me.

Lemon-tarted butter bundt cake. Tart for the years filled with bitterness and regret; sweet for the ones yet to come. Dense, because dense cake is safe - it won't split or crumble, moist crumbs adhere back together and cling to the fork, as all good memories cling to each other. Lastly, it's a cake full flavored enough to stand on it's own, proud, confident - it's whole, by itself.

Frosting, optional.