Food works in many mysterious ways. Ways in which you never see coming, just like life. For me it all relates to baking a cake. When I was a beginner in baking, and I’m not saying I’m an expert now, you take the simple way of doing things. Box cake mix. Box frosting. The cakes always cook for the same exact time no matter the day or hour. Being young and being watched and advised while you’re in the kitchen trying to make stuff.  An effortless recipe with effortless ingredients to add. Slow and steady. Just how when I was little I was sheltered. I always had someone right at reach that I would immediately go to. It was easy. I had no responsibilities and I wasn’t the one supposed to be taking care of everything. When baking, my parents would take the cake in and out of the oven. In life they were the ones showing me everything. They were the ones taking me in and out of different situations when it was needed. After the cake came out I frosted it with that overly sweet, whipped, Betty Crocker vanilla frosting. Messily coating the entire cake with it just for my parents to smooth it out. It was something I enjoyed. As daily activities went on, my parents would smooth out all the errors I had and little frustrations inside me. Leaving that extra sweet coating of love every time.

Getting older, I was the one now taking the cakes in and out of the oven. Still, my parents watched and advised, but I had more leeway than before. I was now going to school and being put in situations where they couldn’t just show up and move me out of them like before. I was now in control. When I got home though, they still asked and assisted and supported me, just from a little farther back. When I frosted and stacked the cakes, pieces would break and it would be messy, but my parents still came in to save me, to “fix” the cake before it all fell over. It was that little gesture that made me connect with my parents through food.

Getting to middle school, I was baking more than ever before, but what was new is that I was experimenting. I wasn’t sticking to the safe routine and I wasn’t using the box cake mix anymore. I left my comfort zone to find greater, more appetizing things. So in school I looked for some more friends, just like trying new cake recipes. I found a really good friend. A perfect one, I thought, with good reviews from others. Back to my cake, the new recipe I tried from scratch worked, but there were a few lumps and imperfections. I was determined to get it right, to fix it. I stacked the cakes and they would slant or tilt, but never actually fell over. My parents watched from a far distance now, trusting my decisions and judgment. Yet they never fully let down their guard or supervision.

All throughout middle school I worked on perfecting that cake, trying to smooth out the bumps and burnt ends. Trying to stack them perfectly in line. No matter how many times I made this cake though, It would burn, or bubble over, or come out dry, but I never thought of the reasons why. My friend and I were now very close but sometimes things were done that I didn't agree with. I thought, though, that she’s my friend, It’ll all work out fine eventually. We continued on, us hanging out, and me trying to perfect the cake.

In highschool I almost had it. I creamed the butter and sugar until fluffy. Added in the eggs, one at a time, and the vanilla for taste. Then the dry ingredients, rich with the deep smell of cocoa powder. Finally to complete the batter I poured boiling water in to mixture for it to bloom and loosen up, taking away bumps. I poured the batter into the tins, perfect, and put them in the oven. While waiting I wrapped the gifts for my friend for her birthday. I spent months coming up with what to get her and spent time gathering the gifts wherever I went. The cakes came out perfect, beautiful. I let them cool, and then frosted and stacked them. This time, for the first time, they were perfect. Proud of my work I wanted to share with my friend, but she shared something else before I could speak. She voiced that the friendship was over. That she didn’t want to be friends anymore because I didn’t do this and I didn’t do that. It broke me, and looking over my cake crumbled. I frosted it too quickly. I tried to be loving and protective far before the cake was ready for it, making it break apart. With nothing but crumbs left, I cried to my mom, who was watching when my cake fell apart in my hands.

Still I tried more recipes, I kept going, but not well. My cakes would be going well and then all of a sudden it was like a switch turned and everything fell to bits. One night I was baking late, everyone was asleep, but I was up in the kitchen working away. A chocolate cake with strawberry filling and buttercream frosting. All from scratch. I wanted to do it. I wanted to make it. It was something that brought me joy, right? The cakes came out good, airy and leveled. The strawberry filling sweet, but not too much. The frosting a little salty, just how I liked it. Only now I had to assemble it. Juggling so many different parts was messing with me. It was like a representation of my mind sprawled out in front of me. Looking at the ingredients and telling myself don’t be too nice, but don’t be reserved and salty. Make sure you can take a joke, be airy, not dense. Just stop crying and put yourself together.

I carefully layered everything. Cake, filling, cake, filling, cake. Then I covered it all with frosting. It looked good, and it held for a minute or two, but it quickly went down hill. The red filling leaked out from all over the cake, oozing like blood. Something switched in my mind and that frosting tool I just used began to serve a very different purpose. Now I too was oozing like the strawberry filling, only I don’t think I was sweet. I felt defeated and broken. Lost and confused. My mind was screaming at me from every nonexistent corner it has. Get it together! You CANNOT be acting like this. Just make it perfect. Get off the floor and fix yourself. Come on. Perfect, perfect, perfect. It’s not that hard. Rising from the floor I washed the knife, clean for its actual purpose. I used more frosting and patched up the holes, then did the same to myself with band-aids. I kept this from my parents, now trying to do the fixing that they used to do myself. Coated with love.

Many cakes and nights later, things got worse and worse, but like everyone knows, you can cover up an ugly looking cake with some good piping skills and a smile. So that’s what I did. My parents did the best that they could, making the mistake of trusting me now that I was older, which was caused by deceiving them. Just like my cakes I tried to be perfect, in and out of school. My grades were good and I was involved in different activities. The cakes I made at home always had some problems but I fixed them before anyone could see, masking the impurities with different fillings and decorations. This cycle continued on, and I continued to smile beside my cakes. I deteriorated less and less, like a cake left sitting for a long time, but continued to mask it until the day I truly couldn’t.

Like that cake I made years ago, I crumbled to pieces before my parents, and begged for the help that I desperately needed. Immediately they did so, and I began the reconstruction process. My parents, teachers, and counselors picked those crumbled cake pieces off the ground and molded me back into shape. It may not have been pretty, but the end result tasted good. Finally, after years of struggle, and things falling apart, I learned there is no perfect cake. Just like there is no perfect person. We all have our flaws, but that’s what makes us stand out. 

Now, as a senior in high school, I am honored to be able to truly begin my culinary career in college next year. Having created all of these cakes, and having had all the support I was so generously given throughout the years, I realized that food really is my way of connection with people. That feeling of joy from baking cakes was because I was doing it with my family, and I was enjoying the end result with people I love. Just like my parents did for me, I want to be like the frosting, providing that extra coating of love that others need.