Just a Cake

"It's just a cake," she said to herself as she stared at the cake on her countertop. She lightly tapped the fork on top of the faded recipe card, contemplating what the first taste would be like. Would it be as good as she remembered? Tears welled in her eyes as she thought about taking a bite. She wiped her tears, quickly put foil over the pan, and decided to save the cake for another time.

The next morning as she sipped her coffee, she glared at the cake as it taunted her. "It'd just be a bite," she thought. "It's just a cake." She lifted the corner of the foil, peering into the pan. She lightly placed the foil back in its place. As she turned, she saw the recipe card, covered in years of baking stains. She gently took the card and placed it back in the book labeled, "Mom's".

She came home that night after a long day at work, needing something to bring her comfort. She sighed as she entered her quiet apartment. Her keys softly jingled as she hung them on the hook. She pulled her phone out of her bag, unlocked it, and opened her contacts. She scrolled to "Mom" and clicked the name. Her heart began to pound as it rang. Knowing she couldn't bear hearing a stranger's voice on the line, she hung up the phone. She sulked into the kitchen with her tear-stained cheeks to pour herself a glass of wine. She leaned against the counter, lightly pressing the full glass to her lips. She took a sip, arms crossed. Her gaze slowly shifted to the 9x13 pan, filled with her favorite chocolate cake. She leaned forward once more, gently peeling back the corner of the foil. “It’s just a cake,” she whispered. “Just take a bite. Get it over with.”

She flung the silverware drawer open, frantically grabbing a fork before her moment of courage fled. She ripped the foil off and stared at the simplistic beauty of the cake. Chocolate cake and chocolate frosting, just as it always had been. The frosting was haphazardly spread with no rhyme of reason to it with bumps and waves throughout it, almost as a road map showing exactly how the baker spread it. The corners of the cake were crisp, just like Mom liked it. “I love a crunchy corner,” she used to say.

She slowly pierced the fork into the bottom left corner, just as she had when she was a child. She raised the fork to her face, watching the crumbs fall off the sides. It was perfectly imperfect, just as it been every single time before that. As her shoulders began to shake, more crumbs fell to the ground. She began to sob, dropping the fork and crumbled bite of cake at her feet. The tears began to consume her, draining every ounce of her energy until she could no longer stand. She sank to the floor next to the bite she’d never take. As she drew her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, she shouted, “It’s just a cake!” The sobbing continued, this time with wails of pain and sorrow.

Time had passed, though, she was not sure how much. She reached up to grab onto the counter above her and pulled herself up from the ground. She took two large swigs of her wine and made her way to the broom closet. She shuffled her feet to the small mess she had made and began to sweep. Her breath was short, her eyes puffy. After the floor was clean, she looked over at the pan once more. Looming over it, she stared at the now empty corner. “You’re just a cake,” she cried. “You are just a damn cake!” She grabbed the pan, turned, and threw it in the trash. She sighed, splashed cold water on her face, refilled her glass of wine, and walked into her bedroom.

She woke the next morning, face swollen from the night before. She reached for her phone and called her father. “I made the cake,” she told him, her voice breaking as she tried not to cry.

“How was it?” her father asked.

“Dunno,” she quietly responded. “It’s in the trash.” She heard her father chuckle.

“That bad, huh?”

She softly laughed. “Dad, I didn’t even try it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know,” she responded. She began to cry. “I just can’t.” She was met with silence. Her voice began to fade. “It’s just a cake, Dad.”

More silence. Her father finally broke it with his soft voice. “But it’s not.” She heard her father sniffle. He was crying. His voice broke as he said, “It’s so much more and that’s okay.”

“It is?” she asked as she began to cry, clutching her warm coffee cup to her chest.

“It is. You don’t ever have to have that cake again if you don’t want to, but if you decide to make it again, don’t be afraid to cherish everything it means to you.”

She nodded, wiped her tears again, and hung up the phone with her father. She walked into the kitchen and over to her coffee pot. She poured a splash of cream in her cup before filling it up once more with warm coffee. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and thought about the cake. She softly opened her eyes, sniffled, and smiled as she walked to the books on her kitchen counter. She pulled out the one labeled, “Mom’s” and laid the recipe card on the counter once more. She took one more deep breath, another sip of coffee, and she began to gather the ingredients. “Alexa,” she called out to her device. “Play Billy Joel.”

With each ingredient she placed in the bowl, she welcomed a memory of doing this with her mother. She danced around the kitchen as she listened to some of her mother’s favorite songs, carefully measuring each ingredient. She snuck a taste test of the batter, laughing out loud as she remembered her mother saying, “That’ll make your tummy hurt later!” Each pour, each stir, each tear was met with a memory of being in the kitchen with her.

She grabbed her mother’s oven mitt and slid it onto her hand. She took a deep breath as she opened the oven. She was overwhelmed with a smell she knew all too well. It was her favorite. She placed the cake on top of the stove to cool, drawing in the scent of the freshly baked cake. She sat looking at the cake, willing it to cool so she could spread the frosting across the top. She closed her eyes and was taken back to her mother and father’s bedroom.

Her mother laid in bed as she had most of the time at that point. Her skin was pale, her hair was gone, and her eyes were tired. She smiled up at her daughter as she placed her hand on hers. Tears began to build as she struggled to find what exactly to say. “I’m sorry,” her mother said as she squeezed her hand. “I wish I could be here longer.” Unable to respond to her mother, she simply smiled and nodded. She kneeled beside the bed, clutching her mother’s hand. She laid her head on her stomach, listening to her labored breathing, knowing it wasn’t going to be long.

She opened her tear-filled eyes and brought herself back to reality. She stared at the cake, deciding it was cool enough for frosting. She spread the frosting across the cake, softly laughing as she saw little bits of cake pull up because as she always did, she didn’t wait long enough for it to cool.

She looked at the finished cake. Chocolate cake, chocolate frosting, as it always had been. She walked over to get a fork, softly sank it into the bottom left corner, and raised it to her lips. She opened her mouth and placed the bite on her tongue. The moment the cake hit her tastebuds she realized her dad was right: It wasn’t just a cake. It was years of birthdays, graduations, and random days her mother felt like baking. It was the answer to her mother’s question of, “What kind of cake do you want?” It was the taste of moments spent together. It was the richness of the memories made as they danced to Billy Joel and snuck tastes of the batter. It was her mother passing the recipe down when she realized it was no longer hers to make, ensuring the goodness was carried on without her. It was the cake she’d make as she told her children what her mother used to be like. It was now the one thing she could rely on to make her feel close to her mother again. It was much more than just a cake; it was the taste of a life well lived and she savored every single bit of it.