Let Them Eat Cake: Good Intentions Never Fall Too Flat

When I'd bitten off more than I could chew, my mother used to tell me the road to hell is paved with good intentions.Take last night, for example. Me and my big mouth. I told both of my evening classes - back to back - that we would begin to celebrate birthdays and this past Monday and Tuesday started the procession. We won't do it again until April, thank goodness. I really messed up.

Monday's party was for a lovely Albanian woman and the class made a list and money was collected and the result was a deliciously huge cake prepared by another student in our class. We had tortilla chips, salsa, flan, and more. Soft drinks and juices were carried in by other students and it was a charming success. But I also went home tired, needing to make a cake for the next night's event. Did I mention I was tired?

Now, this second class is smaller than the Monday one, 15 most nights versus nearly 25. I stared at the tin baking pan I'd purchased and it looked large. I couldn't imagine baking and transporting such a big batch of Funetti cake. I should have made it, though, let it cool overnight and frosted it once at school. But I didn't. I fell asleep and in the morning hurriedly made the double portion, but by the time I needed to leave for my train ride to Harlem for my second day of a 12-hour schedule, the cake was not finished. It wasn't firm in the center. It was liquid still! Thankfully, I had left some batter out and had also baked a small offering. Small. But it had cooked clear through and so I took it!

I wish my cake had been this big.

I was not thinking, firing on all pistons. And once in Harlem, a full eight hour day, and blurred right into the evening, forgetting to seek out a bakery on 125th Street during my lunch hour. Plus, my feet hurt. Oh that road to hell. Before the students arrived, I stared at the cake that amounted to a Texas-sized cookie at best. I blushed, thankful I also bought a dozen donuts and a box of fancy cookies. But I'd forgotten to buy soft drinks. We had a bottle leftover from the night before, so I took it out of the school's refrigerator. I found a pitcher, too, and filled it with water, praying all this was enough. In hindsight, I should have passed around a list for this class as the Monday class had done.

This night's birthday celebration was for a delightful Greek man. He gave me a precious wooden sailboat after a cruise he and his wife attended a few months back. I love it. The base of the boat has the word "love" written in cursive with white paint. 

"It is small," he had said.

"No! I love it!" I said when he gave it to me, and I meant it.

I shoved Munchkin donuts around the base of the cookie/cake. As we stood about the table, the class was polite and I hope to heck everyone got a slice, thin though it was. I sliced and served, not looking up.

Later, at home, I stared at the larger cake and its sunken middle. I could have cut out the uncooked part and had more than enough cake. Shoved Munchkins in the hellish mess.

I still feel embarrassed because it is my nature to be generous. It looked like I was stingy, unthoughtful, and unprepared. And yet, only the last part of my previous sentence is true. I mean think about it: my kind Greek student thinks the decorative sailboat he gave to me was too small, and I think my mistake produced a dinky birthday cake. But our intentions were humongous.

Tomorrow night, I will apologize to him. Or not. I need to forgive myself and know my intentions were from the heart. The debacle kept me in the direction of the fiery furnace, but there's always hope for a detour.