Last weekend called for cake. I’ll admit I struggle with baking. Sure, I can bake cookies or cornbread, but cake is an altogether different beast. An ass-kicking, confidence-busting, tasty beast. 

I’m careful to follow directions when I bake, using precise measurements and temperatures. None of my usual approximates laziness, like substituting the liquid measuring cup for the dry. Still, cake has something against me. It’s personal. 

I’m hopeful as I pull the precisely timed layers from the oven. After they cool completely, it’s time to turn them out of the pans. That’s right, the make-or-break moment in the short but sweet life of cake. 

Cake is determined and does not give up its grip on the pan. So begins the delicate process of removal by force. Digging stuck-on cake out of a pan knows it is not the preferred method. The result is a sad and broken mess. 

This is the place where you decide to either give up or accept and salvage your imperfections.  

Asking yourself, again, “Where did I go wrong?” 

I half-believe, “I can keep this thing together. I’m creative. I went to art school, after all.” 

Sculpture wasn’t really my thing, but I’m confident I can model together something that is at least, cake-like. 

And, so I begin. The frosting is the hero. It is the fluffy armor protecting the fragile, damaged layers on the inside. 

It’s me. As cake.