Wedding Cake Blues

Beads of sweat cling to the ends of my hair that I’ve piled into a bun at the nape of my neck. The heat is all I can think about as I watch pounds and pounds of buttercream forming in the industrial mixer before me.

How is this shit not melting? I ask myself as I run to the thermostat. It reads 72 degrees, and though I refuse to believe it, I’m forced to attribute my discomfort to my own work and not the air blasting through the vents.

I pick my phone up off the metal table in the center of the kitchen. Four more minutes until I have to endure even more heat. Just the thought of pulling the cakes out of the blazing oven sends a new wave of heat and exhaustion down my spine.

The buttercream has fully formed, its stiff peaks hanging from the whisk as I shut off the mixer and pull the bowl out. When I set the massive bowl on the counter, the timer on my phone blares and, for a moment, I curse my choice of employment.

It’s not that I hate baking. I love it so much, otherwise I wouldn’t have opened up my own bakery. For three years now I’ve made cake after cake, danishes and muffins galore for my ever growing client base and I’ve loved every minute of it. But as I reach into the 375 degree oven, all I can think about is how wrong the flavor of this cake is.

The two tiers of the carrot wedding cake go directly in the fridge to cool before I can assemble it; otherwise, the freshly made buttercream will slide right off the hot sponge.

When I walk back to the buttercream, ready to fill the piping bags, I realize I forgot to neutralize the yellow of the butter. The jaundiced icing taunts me as I heave the bowl back to the mixer. The pegs that are meant to hold the bowl in place refuse to line up with the holes on the sides of the bowl and my frustration grows further. Metal screeches while I wiggle the bowl back and forth, back and forth, until the sweat of my palms slides the whole thing out of my hands and the bowl comes clattering to the ground. I know I’m lucky that none of the buttercream hits the ground, but still, I shove it far away from me and fall to my knees.

Time passes unperturbed by my deadline that is fast approaching. The customer is going to be here in less than two hours. Yet, I remain on the floor, eyes fixed on nothing as tears silently burn my flushed cheeks.

He hated carrot cake.

It’s been two years since I removed the ring from my finger before vows had been shared. We didn’t get married, and for good reason. But, staring into the abyss, all I can think about is his hatred for carrot cake.

“Vegetables don’t belong in desserts,” he once said as I experimented with different recipes. His eyes never once leaving his phone, thumb swiping across the screen, no doubt staring at the endless emails in his inbox.

“Come on,” I encouraged, picking up a fresh cupcake off the table. “If you’d just try it—”

“No,” his voice boomed through the kitchen. He finally looked up at me, frustration etched in his face and I’m grateful for the “closed” sign on the front door. I couldn’t bear the thought of a customer walking in and hearing this conversation.

I set the cupcake down without a word.

It wasn’t long after that day that we called off the wedding. Just two months before “I do,” we decided we don’t. Our dreams were incompatible. Our hobbies didn’t mesh and we were both too stubborn to even attempt to truly enjoy each other’s company.

After God only knows how much time, I rise to my feet and wipe the tears off my face. I put the bowl back on the mixer, attaching it this time on the first attempt, and add purple food dye to neutralize the yellow.

I fill the piping bags. I assemble the two tiers. I slather on the, now white, buttercream that they specifically requested because the bride despises the traditional cream cheese icing. I hand pipe roses around the edges of the cake and attach the fake flowers the customer had dropped off.

There was a quiet beauty in the simplicity of this cake. It was nowhere near as extravagant as ones that I’ve made in the past, and yet, it is probably my most beautiful creation.

I’m putting the completed cake in the box when the front doorbell jingles. “I’ll be out in a minute,” I call over my shoulder to whoever is standing at the front counter.

“Take your time,” she says, her voice as sweet as the buttercream I killed myself making.

I stand back from the cake and run to my office to check myself in the mirror. Hair sticks out of my bun so haphazardly, I need to pull it out and retie it before I greet my customer.

When I finally reach the front, she greets me with a smile only a bride-to-be could adorn.

“You’re here for the carrot cake, right?” I ask, unable to hide the exhaustion in my voice.

She nods her head. “Yeah, I know it’s an odd choice for a wedding cake, but it’s my fiancé’s favorite.”

A tight smile acknowledges her comment, but I don’t say a word before I retreat to the kitchen. A shuddering breath enters my lungs before I lift the cake up off the table, and when I bring it up to the front, she’s happy with it. She’s so happy with it that she begins gushing and praising my skills. She hands me her credit card, but it’s all such a blur that I wouldn’t be shocked if I didn’t even run the card.

Pride fills my chest as she walks out so happy with my services, but that pride is quickly replaced with a pain I haven’t felt in two years.

Because this beautiful bride has no idea that her fiancé, who adores carrot cake, is the same man who berated me for making it.

Returning to the kitchen, I begin putting all the dishes in the sink, ready to wash them for the next order. That’s when I see it. Just one little drop, but it’s enough to send me to the closet. I drag the mop and bucket out and fill the bucket with hot water and floor cleaner. Drenching the mop, I scrub at the floor like I’ve never done before.

By the time I’m done, the only signs of the buttercream are in the plastic piping bags soaking in the sink. The floors are sparkling, and the lemony scent of the floor cleaner pierces through the room.