Ingredients for a Cake

“You don’t put blueberries in chocolate cake”

A statement of fact, seemingly as obvious as cats don’t fly. I didn’t need to look at Adam to read the disdain in his eyes. This was his middle management voice, condescending with a hint of false compassion. Dreams of fat slices of chocolate, blueberry cake evaporate. My finger pushes a grain of sugar across the table into a pool of warm coffee. I watch it disintegrate. A sweet death I almost envy.

“I found recipes online. They look… good,” I say, squinting at him across the breakfast table. Morning sun streaming through windows gives him the appearance of a shadowy authority figure. I hide behind my over-sized coffee cup, warmth spreading through my hands.

“They have hotdogs in jelly online, that tells you everything. I’ll call my mom, she’ll handle it. It’s my birthday dinner, not time for your experiments.” He quirks an eyebrow, an exclamation to his point.

My coffee suddenly doesn’t taste as sweet. His mom is not a complete shrew, just mostly. She is a self-appointed expert on everything. Wedged into the stiff bun atop her head, she always keeps a number two pencil. I have never seen her use it, but I am sure it escapes only to jot notes on what everyone is doing wrong. I fear that pencil, like I feared the red pen of my fourth-grade teacher.

“I got this Adam. No need for your mom, really,” I implore him with my eyes as he rises from the table to drop a quick peck on my forehead. I can feel the warm imprint of coffee deposited by rough lips. My nose wrinkles up at him.

“Don’t worry your pretty head. She will take care of it. You just concentrate on looking nice. Hey, wear that red sweater tonight. I’ll see you after work”

My fuzzy slippers flap along on the floor as I trail him to the door. My mind searching and discarding a hundred ways to tell him I am queen of my castle. I will bake with blueberries or hang tacky steamers, whatever I want. My mouth opens wide with indignation just as the door clicks shut. Air escapes me like a hiss, my ire deflating like a balloon.

Adam always has the advantage in our relationship. Eight years my senior, he was my manager at the call centre when we met. He quickly took the new girl under his wing. It wasn’t long before he took me other places, too. Three years into the relationship, I still feel like the raw hire, afraid to speak up, fearing termination. Perhaps I should have gone to college, like my mother wanted, but I try not to dwell on that.

I scrub his coffee remains from my forehead. The mark of the morning beast easily removed. Trudging down the hall plans for the day file into neat little columns in my head. It was not just any birthday for Adam. He is turning thirty. A big number, an important number. His actual party is a beer-fueled rampage, thoughtfully planned by his buddies for the upcoming weekend, no girlfriends allowed. Tonight, the family gathering is my night to arrange. The menu abruptly taken from my hands will free up time for whipping this apartment into shape. I will impress Adam with cleanliness. It’s a good thing, really, I convince myself.

All morning, I wipe, polish and dust. I channel my inner Monet to make placemats, drawing balloons and streamers on old printer paper in blue and red ink. They look like bruises on the page. I paint my nails lime green and slip into my red sweater and flare skirt. Soft fabric brushing my skin like baby powder. Playfully I pose in the mirror. I pile blonde hair on top of my head and purse my lips. My cheekbones are striking, I have always wanted short hair. Twisting my mouth, I let it drop. Adam prefers long hair he thinks short hair is for war criminals. His convictions amaze me.

Around noon, the phone rings. Adam’s mother practically purrs into the phone. She sounds like a person given to air kissing.

“Mandy, Adam called me. You, my dear, have no fears. I have a pot of chili on the stove already. It’s Adam’s favorite, you know. I buy these organic pinto beans. Yum, Yum.”

I nod into the phone.

“If you like, make, or buy, I guess, garlic bread. Organic, of course. We can’t be too careful. As for cake, I’m going to bake it here and just bring it over to ice before serving. Do you know how to make icing? I’ll send a link.”

Hours later, all is in order when Adam strides through the door. He eyes me lasciviously and grins, exuding boyish charm.

“You look good, Mom and Maelynn not here yet?”

I swish my skirts playfully, momentarily forgetting the day’s irritations.

“Happy Birthday babe, they will be here any minute.”

He tosses his jacket onto the couch, and his lunch bag on the table, covering a placemat I had worked so hard on.

“Hey, I cleaned up in here, you know?”

He appraises the room skeptically and shrugs.

“Oh! Did you?”

A knock on the door saves him a knock on the head, birthday or not. Scents of spice and chili waft in. A small parade bearing a big silver chili pot and still warm cake pans. His mother plays the band leader, sister Maelynn and niece Alex following. I capture the chili pot and lug it to the kitchen. Little Alex follows me, pig tails swinging.

“I helped bake the cake. Grandma says you don’t know how. I could teach you.”

I pretend acute deafness. It becomes clearer to me every time I meet Alex that I never want kids. Cute at a distance, but a real drag on self-esteem up close. Depositing dinner on the stovetop, I putter around the kitchen. Garlic bread in the oven, stove on to reheat, and prudently I drain a quick glass of white wine. Warm tingles, relax tight muscles. Alex watches me wide eyed.

“Wow, you drink fast,” she says, darting out of the room.

During dinner I play the silent observer. Nodding in the right places, eyes tracking the conversation. No one engages me nor I them. A big green wine bottle stays close to my plate. For entertainment, I concoct a drinking game in my head, a swig for every judgmental comment. The room glows. Adam eats more than he ever does when I cook, his stomach protruding round and full before he finishes. Spoons clatter in empty dishes, chairs push back, making space.

“I’ll get the cake,” I mumble to no one.

Adam’s voice, cozy and satiated, follows me out of the room.

“Thanks for making dinner mom, Lord only know what we would have if you hadn’t done this.”

I hear a small sound from somewhere close, like an elastic stretched too far, finally snapping. I don’t know if it’s from inside my head or somewhere out there. The fire building in my belly comes from more than chili peppers. Like the wine bottle beside my plate, my reservoir of rational thought is empty.

In the kitchen, I peer into the microwave at my reflection. The girl looking out seems unsteady. It doesn’t feel like my hand fumbling for kitchen shears. Heart beating louder than the voices in the next room, I seize my hair in one hand. A quick gulp of determination and I fight to cut through the thick make-shift ponytail. First strands, then clumps of blonde hair fall to the floor. The woman in the microwave, hair like a shaggy hedgehog, grins wickedly at me. I wink, pleased with my appearance.

The cake, still not iced, laughs at me from the counter. I giggle back, opening the fridge and retrieving the pure white frosting. I pause before closing the door. Hot sauce, red like my mood, peeks at me from the shelf. It’s not blueberries, but it will have to do. Newly pink frosting slathers easily across the moist surface. A chunk of hair tickles the bottom of my foot.

I march into the dining room, cake and candles wobbling unsteadily before me. The melody of “Happy Birthday” rises high and dies on shocked lips just as suddenly.

“You’re going to get in trouble. When I cut my hair, Mommy cried,” Alex breaks the silence, eyes like an owl.

I set the cake gingerly on the table. A manic smile spread across my face. Oddly, it does nothing to calm the surrounding scene.

“I am going to bed, enjoy.”

I can hear Adam calling my name, tugging on my wrist. Whispers and exclamations erupt in my wake. The scent of hot sauce and chocolate fills the air. None of it matters. I know Adam will tell a new girlfriend this story soon.