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I made a cake when I should have been writing.
I could end there and you’d have read a complete story. But this isn’t about cake and this isn’t about writing because is it ever really? (Ok, it’s sort of about cake.)
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I don’t need to try an activity to know whether I’ll enjoy it. There are gray areas, sure: knitting seems ok; rollerblading, a nostalgic “maybe.” But cake baking… that turned all my prerequisite lights green.
I’d never baked a cake in my life. For months, I’d add springform pans to my Amazon cart, abandon them, and repeat the cycle. The fantasy of decorating something layered and imperfect was potent, like I’d met that version of myself in another life and she was really content with how things shook out.
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My mom is a serial hobby abandoner. Her two enduring pastimes are golfing at the cheapest, jankiest courses (she does look damn good in a skort) and New York Times crossword puzzles. Last time I was home, I told her I’d gotten into beading and she brought me a bag of yellowing supplies from the attic. I figured there’s no way this bitch didn’t try to make us birthday cakes at some point in my young life before enlisting Carvel. And sure enough, she had four cake pans tucked away—silver, pristine.
When she gave me the pans, she made some snide comment about how “all these little things I do will go away once I start having kids,” punctuated by a witchy ass “HEEE he he he.” Leave it to my own mother to write me off before the oven’s even warm. Thankfully she’s never been much of a clairvoyant.
I, however, have an eye for the future. I might not be able to tell you whether I’ll bake cakes into my 50s, but I knew the first cake I’d bake would be lemon blueberry. Sweet, tart, colorful. It’s one of those safe-but-interesting-enough combos people reach for, like mini dresses and Doc Martens. I went to Whole Foods on a mission.
Eggs
Milk
Blueberries
Lemons
Sour cream
Unsalted butter
Confectioner’s sugar
(The sheer panic on my face when I learned one batch of buttercream frosting called for the whole bag of powdered sugar and then some.)
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Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday zipped by. I mashed sweet potatoes and cooked perfect ribeyes and even snuck in a loaf of banana bread, but the cake pans sat on my desk, taunting me with my mother’s words: All these little things you do will go away once you start having kids.
I couldn’t give her the satisfaction of admitting I think about that a lot. Every night when I’m twirling around the kitchen in a big t-shirt, cooking elaborate meals for my fiancé after going for a run and before I start writing. When I’m full of new life, will I still trudge 10 miles through 90 degrees and 100% humidity? Will I still stand over the cast iron, splashing brown butter on red meat, sticking the thickest parts with the thermometer until it reads 135? Will I still fill notebooks with the words I dare not say aloud?
(Who taught me not to say them aloud anyway?)
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I finally decided to bake the cake Wednesday night. My friend Mike was coming over for dinner and instead of being a chill, normal host who sits on the couch with you and drinks wine, I was reducing blueberries over the stove, aggressively beating the wet ingredients into the dry—batter flying all over the place. We talked about how hippies over 40 make the best friends and sharing a home with your ex makes life feel liminal and there are mushrooms called “penis envy” that will send you to Mars.
Mike is a sacred treasure friend. His random appearances always feel like a surprise party. Long, red hair. Uninhibited laugh. Button-down shirt covered in… whales? Two years ago I had a New Year’s Eve party and he rolled up at 1 AM in Heelys.
Mike is someone you’d bake a cake for on an occasionless Wednesday night. And although he couldn’t stay through the cake’s completion (which, spoiler, was about 11 PM), I wouldn’t let him leave without a scoop of blueberry compote. “It tastes kind of alcoholic,” I warned, “but SO good.” That split-second intimacy between the person who made the thing and the person taking the bite is where joyful, healing reciprocity germinates. It is perfect soul convergence.
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I only had two cake pans for a three-layer recipe. So I had to make the third layer while the other two cooled, extending the process by another hour. I thought I was doing everything right. Things seemed to be going well. I’m not someone who experiences things going well and believes them. So naturally when I went to flip the third layer onto the cooling rack, it fell apart. Andrew came running up the stairs the second he heard a string of expletives.
Now, this is when the magic happens. When the universe benevolently gifts me platonic and romantic transcendence in the same night.
Have I mentioned I’m a lucky girl?
I break a piece off and dip it in the fluffy pink buttercream. Holy shit, I think. I made a good cake. I shove a hunk in Andrew’s face. He denies me at first, “I just brushed my teeth.” “You will eat the fucking cake.” He eats the fucking cake. He wraps his arms around me and we laugh in the same wheezy, “can you believe this?” cadence. I could tell he was really proud of me and I knew you could grow in love with someone, but I didn’t know it could be so much so fast.
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When my friend Jake was released from the St. Louis Cardinals organization, he wrote a heart-wrenching piece about baking a cake:
Now, the recipe calls for beating an egg into the butter mixture. I’ve done this a million times. I could crack eggs with one hand then flip them sunny-side up with the other. I've laid down thousands of bunts in my career. One more is no problem. I mix the egg then the rest of the batter. I get promoted and skip two levels—only three more to go. I will be in the big leagues by 26, simple as that.
Everything feels hopeful. He’s following the instructions, and the cake is coming together. His baseball career is advancing. But baking is a fragile act. You forget the milk and the minor league coordinator starts eyeing the June draftees.
Now the batter tanks. Saltier than a pretzel and the once gooey mixture is now a rock. I dig through the cabinets trying to find something that could lighten the batter and get them to like me again before a first-round store-bought sponge cake becomes the organization’s choice. I add vanilla extract, more sugar, and anything I could find. I’ve made it worse. I get demoted. I throw the mixture out and start over. Stir the batter; add the sugar. Nothing is separated. Sugar, salt, butter, flour. I’m a baseball player. I’m Jake. I’m not sure if I’m either.
If baseball is a metaphor for life and baking a cake is a metaphor for baseball then what happened in my kitchen Wednesday night?
I, too, picked eggshell from the batter. I, too, scrawl notes in my phone, ideas for the manuscript— “extra batting practice, late night hotel swings in a Motel 8 bathroom.”
At the end of the day, we’re all just trying to see what we’re made of.
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I made a cake when I should have been writing. I’m a writer. I’m Dia. I’m not sure if I’m either. I gazed upon my creation—crooked beauty on a sticky counter. I wonder what I’ll be like as a mother. Maybe I’ll break the third layer again.
I pray the foundation is this good.
It’s incredibly important to do the little things when you have children, even if the laundry suffers. A spontaneous backyard picnic or an avalanche of sprinkles on your brookie batch is the things they remember. Independently, my children said in class their favorite memories with me was baking.
And honestly, the baking was a conduit to explore some tiny truths which came out here so I’d say the sojourn was worth it.
Lmao I felt “I just brushed my teeth” so hard