baking cakes part two: back in the kitchen (blessings of an ex lover)

So.






It’s been about a year since the great cake fiasco, and for some reason, you find yourself reminiscing. Perhaps it is the familiar fragrances of fall: burning wood, lighter fluid, chimney smoke trailing through the brisk night air, infused with cheap booze and cigarettes; the aromas of autumn, cinnamon, tart apple cider and whiskey, all soaking in the spices of the wet leaves and the melting pumpkins. Perhaps it is the familiar feeling of sleeping under piles of quilts and blankets, wrapped in a mass of fleece that is your oversized sweater, and you’re quite sure you can see your breath when you exhale even though you’re inside. Or perhaps listening to Regina Spektor just makes you nostalgic. Regardless, you’re remembering. And you’re doing what you do best, examining the evidence, checking the facts, spinning wool into thread and drawing conclusions; analyzing, and reporting.

You remember. You remember the stranger, who became the friend, who became the lover and then the estranged. You remember the guitars, the serenades, the poetry, the magic. You remember the intoxicated banter, the lustful affairs, wasting the day away with someone you thought truly cared about you, who you didn’t have to censor yourself around out of fear of being misconstrued or deconstructed. You remember the jesting, the hooting, the folly and the fun. You remember the booze, the lust, the sex, the bedroom ceiling. You remember the strength of his hands, the landscape of his body, the cruxes of his arms, his warm breath on your neck. You remember the couch and the kiss. You remember the workshop and the ottomans. You remember the doubt and the self-consciousness. You remember the alienation and the self-medication.




You remember the kitchen and the cake.




You remember baking that cake, putting your heart into it. You remember being so excited to give it to him.

And you remember the moment you did give it to him:

“…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.”

(baking cakes: a parable
November 30th, 2008)

You remember loving him.
You remember your heart breaking when he didn’t love you back, when he didn’t want your cake.
You remember wanting to die.
You remember hating him.
You remember hating yourself.
You remember spending a lot of time blaming him.
You remember spending a lot of time blaming yourself.
You remember dwelling.
You remember deconstructing yourself.
You remember thinking you weren’t good enough.
You remember playing out impossible and unrealistic scenarios of what could’ve been, if only you were a little older—if only you were that fine wine, opened at the right age—if only you were a little wiser, if only you were more clever, and witty, and charming, and suave. If only you were everything that you just weren’t.
You remember being unhealthy.
You remember smoking too many cigarettes, and drinking way too much, and not sleeping.
You remember being jealous.
You remember hoping he felt guilty.
You remember being indifferent.
You remember pretending you were over it.
You remember realizing that you weren’t.
You remember worrying that others wouldn’t care for him the way you did.
You remember knowing there were other things you should’ve been worrying about.
You remember the months to follow.
You remember trying to distract yourself.
You remember that not working.
You remember wanting to just give the fuck up.








And then, something happened.
Something that you don’t remember.
Something that you didn't expect.

Somehow, you got over it.

And, what’s more strange, somehow, you became happy for him.

And then, SOMEHOW, you became happy with yourself.

AND THEN, SOMEHOW, despite everything, you find yourself back in the kitchen, baking cakes and taking on the world.

And you wonder how you got here, and then you remember:

“This is how it works
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.” –Regina Spektor “On the Radio”



And you know everything is going to work out just fine.