The Symmetry of Cakes and Words and Love

 

 

Last week we had three birthdays in our family.

My husband’s was on the third. Our daughter Maya baked him a cake. Maya’s was on the fifth. Her boyfriend baked her a cake. His birthday was on the seventh and it was Maya’s turn to bake him a cake.

Three birthdays.

Three cakes.

Each of them with its own story to tell.

Maya baked her father a lemon-pound cake. For her boyfriend, it was Black Forest. Her boyfriend baked her a cheese cake. Each recipient received their all-time favorite cakes.

In the outside world, they were talking about missiles and alarms and wars. We were reminded about things that are out of our control.

Inside our home, small gestures of love. With everything we were going through lately, it felt big and significant. My husband has this awful disease looming over him and the ruthless treatment. Maya has her own worries about her future. Her boyfriend, too. And yet, they expressed their love with cakes.

There is something concrete and practical and centering about baking a cake. Maya once told me that when she is stressed, she bakes. Strangely enough, even though I am no baker, I understand her. Baking gives you something to focus on. Baking a cake has rules. You measure the ingredients; you mix them and put them in the oven. You are in control of the process. And yes, most of the time something good and delicious comes out of it.

Me? I write. I try to transform my anxiety into words, the words into poems. I like to say that both of us create something. Maya – her cakes. Me – my poems, stories, essays. And no matter how much work we put into it, I am sure Maya’s creations are way better than mine. Well, at least tastier.

So, this is the story of our family this past week. Three birthdays and three cakes. Our love to wrap them in. And my words for us to remember.