A Pinch of Grief and A Dash of Mourning

This cake is going to kill me, just like it killed her.

Jeez, I sigh. That's a little dark don't ya think?

But it is kind of true. This stupid cake killed her and now she's gone and I'm stuck with nothing but bags of cake mix and now the cake is killing me too. Or the lack of cake, really. It's stupid. And confusing. And probably an overreaction on my part. All I really know for sure is that she was fine when she was baking, life was normal when a fully decorated cake graced the kitchen counter every couple days, but now she's gone and there hasn't been cake in months and there's too much paperwork on the counter to allow room for a cake stand anyway.

Take a frickin' breath.

It should be easy. I've watched her do it time and time again, but this time, this time is different. This time, like my other failed attempts, the cake isn't beautiful and chocolate and filled with love, it's burnt and lopsided and filled with undercooked batter. And I'm pretty sure the icing has flour in it. It's killing me.

It's just pre-made cake mix with the eggs and water and blah, blah, blah--- it's not working. No amount of trial and error puts a cake on GiGi Dierdra's cake stand. No amount of trial and error brings Mom back. It's killing me and driving Dad half insane.

That's a bit of an exaggeration, don't ya think?

He does his best to help out in the kitchen, like I used to do for her, but no amount of boxed cake mix and half-priced, nearly expired egg cartons can replicate what Mom perfected. On the days I can't be bothered to even attempt the dessert, he brings home cupcakes or cookies or some sad, store-bought excuse for a real cake, but it's not the same. Everything is too dry or not sweet enough, and there's no fresh cut strawberries or powdered sugar sitting atop the frosting. There's no subtle hint of cinnamon, Mom's secret ingredient.

It's just a stupid frickin' cake. Calm down.

Today is no different than the two months before it. The kitchen is a mess and the cake stand is cake-less and I'm dying and Dad's driving himself insane keeping up with me and Mom is dead. I hate it. And I hate chocolate cake. And sugar coated strawberries. And cinnamon.

Liar.

I miss Mom. I miss getting to lick the mixing spoon. I miss stealing strawberries from under her nose. I miss getting to guess her secret ingredient until I finally landed on cinnamon. I miss playing (and winning) stupid games with Dad to decide who gets the last piece. I miss chocolate cake and a clean kitchen and normal days. I miss Mom.

I pick myself up off the floor and grab the newest, fully cooled, sad excuse for a cake from the counter where I rejected it. It's burnt on one side and not totally baked on the other. It's somehow dry and wet at the same time. The icing I made earlier didn't set right. The strawberries started to mold. I walk my monstrosity to the trash can and toss it in with the rest of today's failures. This cake is going to kill me.