The Cake Is a Lie

I joined the Daring Bakers in May: talk about bad timing. I managed to post on time, today on my personal home blog, even just days after a miscarriage, if only because a part of me hoped baking the opera cake would be like something out of the novel Like Water for Chocolate. You know? The one where Tita’s pouring of tears into a pot of ox-tail soup turns the broth into a miracle elixir that heals her every illness, where cooking is a magic trick or something wonderful like that. So there I was separating eggs, food processing almond meal, and glazing white chocolate while hoping my life would turn into a Latin American magical realism novel, where a tear dropped in the mix makes a cake become a flower.

But this is fiction. In real life, your cake is only flour and sugar and the product is much sweeter than your heart, at least for now. If the challenge was therapeutic it was in its reminding me that life is for the living: that cakes still have to be baked, laundry still has to be folded, papers graded. That the fat lady has yet to sing.

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