The Cake that Failed

The Cake that Failed

“We need to capture the essence of the orange.  Such energy.  Capture its powerful curvature, the energy of its skin, its contours and nuances.”

I peeled the orange.  Placed some of the flesh inside the cradle of it’s peeling, brushed away some of the mess but kept the pith and skin fragments.  I separated an orange segment and squeezed the fruit until its juice sprinkled the remaining segments and stained the white tablecloth.  I grabbed a few leaves of sage and arranged it with the bright peel.  I snapped a shot just as the instructor came upon me.

“What is this?”  He waved his hand.

“Edible fruit.”

Jason and I met in photography class.  Ever since the Orange Day we bonded quickly.  My parents hoped he would be my choice, but Grandma knew Jason was never a contender.  We gave it a shot, just to make sure.  But the heart wasn’t in it, not for that kind of love anyway.

We met up at a bagel shop.  It was a rare day that he was not working and got to watch his girls for the day.  We ordered our bagel breakfast sandwiches and went to the nearby park for the girls to play.  

“Got a request to do an engagement shoot in Maui.”

“Jealous.”

“Thank you.  I’m going to take the girls with me.”

“Yeah?  That’d be great.  They’d love it.”

“Oh yeah.  Sophia’s part fish.”

“Dee going too?”

“No, she’s working on a big case.  It’ll go before the court by the time I need to be in Maui.”

“Too bad.”

“She’s really excited though.  Think they’ll make her partner after this one.”

“Good for her.  She’s worked very hard.”

“You?”

“I have a crazy lady who thinks she can cook.  I couldn’t even get her recipe to work.”

“Why don’t you do a cookbook?”

“Not interested.”

“Oh really?  I bet you are.”

I looked at him sideways.  “No.  I’m not.”

“Come on.  You cook all the time.  Your cookbook would be stellar.  If the recipes suck, it’d still be a work of art.”

“I’m a photographer.  You betcha it’s going to look like art.”

“What about all those recipes your grandmother made?  There must have been hundreds.”

I nodded.  “Yep, she had quite the collection.  Most of them were stored in her head.  I don’t remember a meal she didn’t cook.”

“It’d be an awesome tribute to her to put all her recipes together.”

I stared at him.

“What?”

“Did you do that on purpose?”

“Do what?”

Grandma baked a cake every year for the annual bazaar.  People fought over the cake walk just to get her cake.  She made a different cake each year, and each year she kept its identity a secret until the great unveiling at the bazaar.  It’s not always the prettiest cake that wins, she said.  Her greatest rival was Mrs. Sue Beth Gowans.  She loved to dress her cakes and make it stand out like a new hat.  One year Grandma had me bake the cake for the bazaar.  I was sixteen and very nervous.  She handed me a recipe card the night before the cake walk.  It was an old favorite of hers that a close girl friend had shared with her when they were both young and newly weds.  Grandma had baked the cake a few times, not often but enough that I remembered it.  As a child I wasn’t much for cakes without frosting or icing, and this cake had neither.  It looked boring.  I never even tried eating it.  I was rather disappointed that she gave me this recipe.  I couldn’t even change her mind.

Under her supervision I baked the cake.  We entered it for the cake walk under my name.  Mrs. Sue Beth Gowans had made a gorgeous raspberry cream cake and studded it with plump red raspberries.  It was a no-brainer which cake was going to be fought over that year.  Sure enough, the ladies hackled and raised their voices at each other over the raspberry cream.  Mrs. Sue Beth Gowans beamed like a plumed peacock.  My cake was next to last to be picked; the other one was a store bought Black Forrest.  Judge Harrison’s wife chose it.  People were disappointed that Grandma didn’t contribute a cake.  A day or two after the bazaar Judge Harrison’s wife called our house and asked to talk to me.  She raved on and on about how wonderful the cake was.   At first she was of a mind to give the cake away to someone or bring it to tea at a friend’s house.  As it turned out she ended up hosting the tea and served the cake.  Her guests absolutely loved it.  The lady who won the fight over the raspberry cream declared that this cake had nothing on that fancy one.  

Grandma only winked when I told her what Judge Harrison’s wife had said.  I wished I would have tasted the cake.  In my diary I had named it The Cake that Failed.  I don’t recall Grandma ever making that cake again.

“I don’t know how I’ll be able to get the recipes,” I told Jason.

“Why not?”

The girls were on the merry-go-round, their pigtails flying.

“Everybody fought for her stuff.  I didn’t get anything.  Nobody will admit what they took.”

“You think your mom would remember?”

“Maybe some.”

“I think it’d be a great project.”

Under her supervision I baked the cake.