Ah, food. The staple of every little fat kid such as myself. Does dessert count as “food”? I would say it does, for it is consumable. There is a special strawberry cake that my mother makes every few times a year. It is special because she invented it herself while trying to recreate a cake one of my brothers was so fond of as a teenager. What she does is she makes two layers of strawberry cake and between the layers she puts strawberry icing, Cool Whip, and sliced strawberries. She covers the top and sides with the whip and the berries and it ends up being this massive mound of sugar with an ending result of a dry mouth. It took me two years, roughly five cakes, to tell her that I wasn’t a fan of all the icing she put in the middle, for I felt it was too rich of a cake already. But I still loved it.
Mom makes it for Thanksgiving, and if we ask nicely, for Christmas Eve at her mother’s house every year. An additional cake would be made for the birthday I share with my niece, Payton. It wasn’t fun at first, sharing a birthday with a new baby, who everyone doted on, and myself already having terrible low self esteem and being the youngest of five. But I love her very much, and we love that cake. When she was about a year old, we all went to the store, Payton in the basket on top of the cart, and we wouldn’t let her eat the strawberries being sold at the store, so she cried. But the thing is, she faked the tears! About two tears fell down her cheeks while she threw a fake tantrum. Little brat.
For her ninth birthday, I baked our cake myself and took it to our joint party. When I showed up with our cake, she simply said, “you can put it with my other presents”. Uhm? What? You are a child? I don’t know. The cake represents too many memories is all I can say.
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