When was it? The first time I saw a cake. Not the kind that you would see in supermarkets, or the convenience stores by the school. These cakes were special. handcrafted, commissioned, made uniquely for their specific order. They were always beautiful and awesome. However, it wasn’t the product that caught my attention, but the one making them that intrigued me the most. I always wondered how they had turned out so perfect at the end. The baker seemed to continuously come up with a new interesting design, an expert in their craft.

I always loved it. 

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          Every few weeks, the kitchen would be full of life, with her scrambling around from one side to the other, looking for a different ingredient or utensil.

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“Where is that damn spatula?”

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          A sentence that was said at least once every time there was a new order. She would look for a few minutes, and then it would appear right next to her. Straight under her nose. As if she just had it in her hands. She would look up and smile, eyes closed, and face red. Cursing at her own forgetfulness, laughing like she couldn’t believe herself. Her bow-shaped lips stretched thin, and her teeth full bearing, with a small curved shaped chip in her front teeth that she blamed on her addiction to Egyptian seeds. A unique grin that could light up any room. 

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          Every project grew increasingly hectic, more ambitious, but there was always the same amount of passion and love being poured into it with every new order. She never knew when to stop. A devotion so pure, it reflected the intentions she had with her creation at the end.

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          I remember the first time she caught me staring at a cake. I was busy trying to examine every detail wondering how she got everything to look so neat, organized, and uniform. How she made sure that the color matched the design and the design matched the request. 

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“What are you doing?”

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          A firm yet soft tone resonated as she stood behind me with the same apron that she always wears. The brown leather strap that would rest tightly on her neck. A smeared handprint in white powder, across the washed out navy blue cloth. Two pens and a pencil, hanging on the pocket resting right around the top center of the article of clothing. A small notebook with a white cover, filled with different recipes, resting next to the pencil. And a look of exhaustion, as if they had stayed awake for days and days on end. 

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          Naturally, it was terrifying. Whenever I interrupted my mother I would be lectured for hours and hours on end about the value of someone’s time and how simply touching something that is not theirs could ruin the entirety of their work. I closed my eyes, sighing, waiting to hear the flurry of words that would usually come after an incident like this.

“Do you want to help?”

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          A moment of silence filled the air, in an otherwise hectic environment. It was a sentence I had never heard before. Well, not never, but given the situation, it was the first time she asked me that question, a seven year old boy, standing in front of the handcut decorations of an unfinished cake. I was curious as I looked up at her eyes, cake mix powder dusted around her face, covering the bridge of her nose. Was she joking? There was no way that she was asking me that question. What happened to the “you need to be careful around people’s work…” and the “if you touch it in the wrong way we will have to restart and that’s a waste of everyone’s time.”

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“...Can I?” I asked, nervous and afraid. 

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          “Of course you can!” as she bursts out laughing once more. I’m not sure if she was laughing because I sounded like I was about to get scolded or at the fact that I was interested in something other than the cartoons that she would always describe as stupid. She looks me in the eyes and smiles again. That familiar smile with a chipped tooth.

 

“Come here. Let me show you.”