Back to the Cake

Dishwasher running, sink filling up again, the smell of the cake fresh out of the oven, a few more potatoes waiting to be thinly sliced. “Mmm, chalupa…” my mind whispers as I layer the chicken, corn, and potato slices. This time I’ll make sure I have two batches because the last time I prepared this meal, we ate the entire thing in two days. This audiobook is helping me cook a lot tonight.

I move quickly but carefully around the kitchen, trying not to get my headphones tangled on the open drawers, “multitasking” as I listen to her words. Soft and familiar, like a best friend sharing her life’s wisdom while we drink a bottle of Malbec. The beeping of the oven redirects me… “Oh, that’s right, I’d set a timer…” I remember as I start poking the cake with the little stick. You see, when baking Tres Leches, you have to make sure you poke it many times; that way, the milk will be distributed evenly, and the cake will absorb all of it. At least that’s what my sister said when she first taught me how to make it.

This has become such a routine each time I bake for a potluck or someone’s birthday. “Ana, are you bringing Tres Leches?!” colleagues often ask. While I poke, the voice of my sister fills my memory; I think of her and my mom gathered around the kitchen, baking together as I sit on the floor listening and barely participating. Memories that will forever keep me company in my own kitchen. The idea of this sisterhood and the shameful jealousy of the unique connection they both share.

My mind switches gears again, this woman’s voice continues to fill the space as I keep busy. I turn the volume up to avoid the background noise of the dishwasher and the running water rinsing the bowls. At that moment, she begins telling the story about going to an AA meeting, she talks about how hard it felt to stay sober and live life that way. I picture her in that room, doing everything she describes in the scene, just like I tell my students to do when reading a book. “This book will change me,” I think as she continues. My mind wanders between her story, her voice, her soul, and the people I want to buy this book for. My mind wanders like a kindergartener filled with excitement moving between centers, not knowing what to enjoy next.

Then I hear it, the phrase that made me stop and forced me to write these lines. Standing in front of the warm cake, one hand holding the glass of wine, the other poking the cake following the usual pattern, I hear it, and I stop.

“Feelings are for feeling.”

Everything stops, my hand stops poking, my lungs inhale and hold, my eyes look up as if searching for pen and paper.

I look at the small IKEA table in the middle of my hot kitchen, I see my laptop, I sit, open it, and click on the newly pinned WordPress icon. “Don’t let these ideas go, Ana. Not again,” I tell myself in a demanding but kind voice. The window opens up, and I rush to the “Write” button, noticing how the seconds feel longer as I wait for the blank space to load. This is what it feels like every time an idea for a post finds me and then vanishes. This is the urge I never grab when I know I should drop what I’m doing to sit and write. This is the taste of courage I’ve played with when I think about just getting it done. “You’re actually doing it,” my mind cheers for me.

I go back to the line that made this happen: “Feelings are for feeling.” I write it down and wonder if I should give some context, explain where the words came from, but I don’t want to lose focus, or maybe I just prefer the idea of people finding the book and listening to it instead.

“Feelings are for feeling,” damn right they are! She’s so right! Why is does it feel like new information? We’re not supposed to feel happy all the time or motivated all the time. I know that, I’ve written about that. But am I really living that way?

Sadness, anger, frustration, loss… Those have a place inside of me too, and I need to make room for them instead of looking for ways to sort them. Like books that need shelving to avoid the mess. Like laundry that needs to be folded quickly before it piles up. Feelings. Sitting across from me and reminding me of all the things my routine keeps hiding.

I write that last paragraph as I think about all the stories I want to write but am too afraid of sharing. All the writing I keep myself from because I can’t define who I am beyond the teacher role or what I have to offer… The oddly calm idea of allowing myself to be lost for a few seconds embraces me until I hear Tim’s voice. I hear him talk about his experience in the job interview he is having, right now, in our living room. “Life doesn’t have space for this search, Ana. Not right now. Put that away for later. It can wait there. Nothing will happen. Go back to the cake.”

My fingers stop, I rest my wrists on the table, and I take a deep breath. I look over at the cake on the kitchen counter, with the stick still stuck in, halfway poked, like asking, “woman, are you done yet?” I know I am because I also know that once I’m done writing these words, I’ll go back to Glennon and her stories, to her feelings, and to whatever she’s going to stir in me. My mind will quiet down once again just so I can cope with reality.

Maybe I’ll get to feed this feeling soon. I’m okay with that. I can wait a little longer.