baking cakes: a parable

So. 











It’s the end of August and the end of a spectacular summer. You’ve just accepted an apprenticeship offer with a carpenter located in a shitty ass town in nowhere Ohio, and your new trade requires that you spend weeks at a time away from home. You make no friends there and loathe every minute of it.

You’re away for a month or so before coming home to visit.

Upon returning, you find that while you were off learning the ways of carpentry, your best friend Mary Jane found a new housemate: he’s taller than you, and he's slicker than you are, but he's a lot like you in many frighteningly obvious ways. You’re alarmed. You feel jealous and angry, and totally overwhelmed. You cannot wrap your mind around how swiftly she’s replaced you and do not want to make nice with this stranger. However, you resolve that raising hell would be bad form, so you smile, wincing, gnawing your teeth and spit out a greeting. 

Hello, he says, the name’s Will, pleased to meet you.

As it turns out, you and Will have a lot in common: you both play the violin, smoke like chimneys and can carry a tune. You decide that Will isn’t half bad after all, so you sweep your initial disdain aside and the two of you become fast friends.

One night, after hours of excessive drinking, you and Will are the only ones who have not yet passed out. He invites you to the kitchen, and pulls a slice of cake out of the refrigerator. It is delicious, and the two of you grease the wheel over the confection, happily exchanging anecdotes and fully absorbed in each other’s company. 

This becomes an instant tradition: every time you come home to visit, you wait for everyone else to go to bed, then you and Will sneak to the kitchen and feast on cake, and every time is as beautiful and memorable and magical as the last. 

You discover that it’s Will’s birthday soon and want to do something nice for him, partially out of your own embarrassment for your shitty first impression of him, but mostly because he seems like a genuine fellow and you want to kindle your friendship further.

You decide to bake him a cake.

You tell your good friend Tina about your idea. She immediately shoots it down, warning you that Will is very particular about his cakes, and that as a rule he only eats store bought cakes. Once in a blue moon will he eat homemade ones, but that's a rarity. 

You consider this information and decide to put the cake on hold.

While you're away, Mary Jane calls you and tells you that Will suspects that you’re thinking about baking him a cake. She says not to worry, that she told him that you are reasonable and realistic, and that you don’t know your way around the kitchen and wouldn’t possibly dream of baking him a cake. 

You want to scream. 

You want to say: speak for yourself. But you don’t. 
Instead, you reply: I mean, if he wanted me to make him a cake, I totally would. 

Tina then reminds you of Will’s rule: people have tried to bake him cakes in the past, she says, but he just doesn’t like them. He just doesn’t want to deal with the fuss—hurt feelings, wounded pride, broken hearts—you know the deal. It would be a hell of a lot easier if you just bought him one. No strings attached, you know?

No. 
You don’t know.
You refuse to believe this until you hear it from the source.
Until you have THAT dialogue, THAT conversation, you'll remain blissfully ignorant
Besides, he’s never had a cake quite like yours, you think to yourself, and maybe you can change his mind. You become determined to bake him the perfect cake. 

Back at the carpenter’s workshop, you’ve taken to making ottomans, which all are suspiciously shaped like cakes. You don’t want to work; all you want to do is bake. In your spare time you peruse cookbooks and study old family recipes looking for the perfect combination of ingredients. You stop calling friends and keeping tabs on the election, all you want to do is BAKE THIS CAKE.

Out of the blue, Tina calls you. She tells you that Will is sick. His ailment isn’t life threatening, but the news only increases the urgency for you to bake this cake. 

After weeks of deliberation, you finally settle on a strawberry cheesecake. You bake it, and it looks…okay. It’s lumpy and uneven, but you put your heart into it and tastes heavenly, so you’re satisfied. It’s the thought that counts, right?

You come home for thanksgiving and sneak the cake into the fridge. Finally, the moment of truth: after everyone goes to bed, you take Will by the hand and bring him to the kitchen. You’re brimming with excitement, and you can’t wait for him to try it. 

I made something for you, you tell him, as you pull your cake out of the refrigerator. 

He looks at the cake, and then he looks at you. His smile fades. And your heart sinks. 

Shit 
Fuck. 
Shit. 
you think to yourself: I’ve made a terrible mistake.

you realize that your friends were right, and that you're fucking stupid

What do you think?, you ask, wanting to crawl in a hole and die


I don’t know, he replies, 
I don’t know how I feel about this kind of stuff

And you know he doesn’t want your cake.

it's okay, you say, 
but it's not. 

it was nothing, you say, 
but it was definitely something. 

You feel silly.

You excuse yourself, and go sit on the couch. Moments later, Will emerges from the kitchen with two plates of cake. But it isn’t YOUR cake, no, it’s generic cake from dairy queen that wasn’t baked with love or good intention specifically for him, and you want to vomit. 

Instead, you eat it, and it tastes like it always did. And it fills you, but you’re not satisfied. 

The next day, before you leave, you wish Will a happy birthday
Thanks, he yawns
No problem, you say half-heartedly as he falls back asleep. 

As you leave, you see your cake is still sitting on the counter, untouched. 
You throw it in the trash. 

As you're driving home, a familiar song comes on the radio:
This is how it works, the voice sings
You peer inside yourself
You take the things you like
And try to love the things you took 
And then you take that love you made 
And stick it into some
Someone else’s heart
Pumping someone else’s blood
You walk in arm and arm 
And hope it don’t get harmed 
And even if it does
You just do it all again

You throw your stereo out the window. 
And then you realize you’re on a bridge over the river
And fantasize about driving off the side.