A Lesson in Friendship

Saturday my faith in the world was reaffirmed at a retirement party for two of my colleagues. As hostess I decided to make a cake rather than buy one. Generally I don't care for store-bought cakes. They tend to be dry, bland, and have some cheap-o icky icing that looks good but tastes terrible. To this end I purchased a couple of cake mixes - the golden butter recipe is moist and tasty without being a specific flavor - and broke out the Wilton book-shaped pan left from a cake decorating class taken many ages ago.

The first step was to diligently coat the pan to ensure an easy release upon cooling. (So far, so good!) Next, of course, came Wilton's decorator icing, which is the best frosting in the world! (Just the thought of that sweet, full-fat texture in my mouth makes me shiver with anticipation.) I applied a base of white and smoothed it carefully with my icing knife dipped in hot water. Finally, the time arrived to decorate the cake. I broke out the fancy tips, colored the remaining icing sunny yellow, and tried to lay a shell border around the base. Alas, it looked more like an uneven zigzag than shells. A second round (above the first) covered a multitude of sins, but looked more frilled than shelled. (Sigh.) Next, I put the same border around the top edge, but again managed more of a rolling rick-rack design than a shell pattern. By this time my hands - which are not as strong, young, or elastic as they used to be - had grown sore and tired, but it was time to put on the lettering. Unfortunately, my hands shook so much that the letters were squiggly lines rather than the flowing cursive of my youth. I tried to help the situation by making a second pass at them, which improved the look by covering the jittery lines, but made the letters pre-schooler heavy and rather messy.

Upon finishing this homage to arthritic hands, I stepped back, surveyed my handiwork, and promptly sobbed. My good and dutiful husband appeared and assured me the cake was lovely and no one would even notice anything amiss while he allowed me to soak his shirt with tears of frustration. Next, my son appeared and promised to punch anyone who would dare to even think a disparaging remark about this cake I had worked so hard to create. Eventually I stopped crying enough to suggest that we run to the grocery and buy a cake that looked more fitting for this momentous occasion, but both of the guys repeatedly said the one I made would be better than anything I could purchase. I remained nonplussed until my son said, "Mom, you should trust your friends to see that you put time and effort into it for them. They'll see that and know that it is good." At that moment I knew I had to practice what I repeatedly preached to my son about friendship, kindness, and trust. I had to serve the cake.

It was with some trepidation that I watched the first guest of honor approach the cake upon his arrival. He exclaimed, "Wow! Look at this cake! It looks delicious! Did you make this for us?" At that moment my heart melted, and I knew I was in the company of friends. No one paid much attention to the decorations, and once cut they were obliterated anyway. So, while the party was not mine, I received the best gift of all - being accepted and appreciated for who I am and the imperfect talents I possess.