Of Friendship, Tears and Truth

“There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature.” 

-Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

Friendship is a funny thing.

It gets you to do the weirdest things. At the spur of a moment.  An unbridled yes, without the thought of consequence.

Friendship allows you to laugh and cry. And then cry some more and laugh again. And wonder why you were laughing in the first place.

It is those friendships that cause a lot of tears too.

My friends got married last year. It was fabulous. There were parties. A lot of them. There was unsolicited advice to the bride-to- be on all things known and unknown.

And there were tears.

When we shared our favourite memories. Laughter and happiness. About how we had met. And if you have friends like mine sometimes you do not quite remember how you met. It is not a clear memory. A fuzzy and comfortable assumption that the four or is it five years that you have known each other has been forever.

There were more tears when the prospect of moving away to the not- so- foreign- land- of –marriage-ville. No more spontaneous sleepovers where you find your toes freezing (thanks friend who steals the blankets).

There were tears because there were not enough wedding planning hours in the day to do the million things necessary and unnecessary for the eight hour celebration. Weary, exhausted tears. In between the sniffles, snotty noses and frozen toes of the spontaneous slumber party, Mrs _ to- be- asks you a question.

Will you make my wedding cake?

Yes.

Anything, to quell the fears of my friend.  In such times the answer is yes.

Always.

Famous Last Words.

My thoughts were clouded by mushy whimsical feelings and thoughts of the wonderful wedding cake that I would miraculous breathe life into.

In my head it was still a joke. A joke because a few weeks before, in the wedding planning book, we had already written and  chosen a reliable lady, who bakes cakes for a living, to be tasked with making the cake.

She called me up. My dear friend, the bride-to-be. Now clear minded, no frozen toes or snotty nose.

I’m serious Coco. You’re baking my cake.

Yes.

In such times the answer is yes. 

Always.

Vanilla. Chocolate. Red velvet.

I’ll bring the ingredients.

She’s not joking. She’s  as serious as the ring on her finger.

Challenge accepted.

But then I remembered that I was not baking a cake for just the wonderful bride and groom but, cakes for small armies of cheerful, appreciative, kind-hearted speckled with hungry, judgmental, wanting –to-get-the-most-value-of-their-free-meal wedding guests.

When the now Mrs_s who were once Mrs_ to- be-thanked me for the cakes a little while after their big days; I said it was a pleasure and honour. It was. I just left out the more important details of the near melt downs I had.

So a year later I think it could do no harm to tell the Mrs_s the truth.

Dear Mrs _,

Thank you for entrusting me with such a grand part of your special day. What an honour it was to love you in such a way.

I’m glad you were happy and have pleasant memories of that magical day.

But now I need to tell you the truth. Your cakes caused me a lot of tears and near melt downs.

There was the day that the melt down was more a burn down. All those eggs and butter and flour and milk not to mention the sugar mixed together were not the golden yellow colour that the recipe book had predicted. More like a crusty brownish combination of all things gone wrong. My dogs had a feast that day. But I held my head high, fighting back the tears with sniffles instead.

I tried. Again.

And again.

Third time lucky. Pillow soft golden cake.

And then there was the day that I would have single-handedly destroyed a glucometer. Absent-mindedly I poured, and poured, and poured some more- oops! Too late!

 Nearly triple the amount of required sugar into the batter.

I would have solved your problem of your lack of wedding favours. Your guests would have been given hyperglycaemic induced comas.

So I tried.

Again.

I survived that and it was all ok.

My offer to bake your cakes should have come with payment in anti-anxiety medication.

A huge dose at that.

But I wouldn't have known that until…

 The not so metaphorical 11^th hour.

It was cold, dark and icy outside, possibly the coldest night of the year. Perfect weather for cake decorating, you couldn't have picked a better day. Did I mention it was possibly the coldest night of the year in Harare, with frost on the ground.  Even the wedding guests who had come to stay from afar were cold. They braced the cold in my near fridge like house.

How did the icing melt?

Explain how that happened.

A statement or even a question that were it an exam I would have gotten zero for. I had had months of preparation. Several practice cakes, taste tester approved, all decorated with the said icing.

So at the 11^th hour or more like the early hours of the morning of the wedding while you were asleep or still up late getting pampered, I took a deep breath and inhaled.

The frosty sugary vanilla buttercream anxiety accented air.

I.

Exhaled.

Thirteen hours later. Three hundred cupcakes. Three golden yellow cakes- beautifully iced, not a chance of melting on possibly the next coldest day of the year, later.

It felt good.

So to the Mrs_s, thank you for the honour and the challenge. And of course the tears. But they did not end there.

There were more that came unexpected, welling up from the deepest depth.

Ones of joy, and happiness, and finally finishing the grand task you entrusted me.  

But not that many, it would have smudged my makeup and then I would have had a real melt down on a day that I wanted to be looking my very best.

You should have also given me some waterproof makeup, and handkerchiefs.

And we must both thank the Cupcake Fairies. Your wedding cakes would have toppled over and fell or never made it the venue on time or anything else that could have gone wrong that had not yet happened.

They were surgery sweet solid as rock candy personalities. They baked. Iced. Arranged. Stacked. Sprinkled. Laughed. Danced. And best of all they were the Prozac.

So those tears have dried up now. Just as they have dried I am beginning to breathe in awaiting the celebrations this year. This time round, I’ll breathe in, all the vanilla buttercream wedding accented air.

I’ll silently thank you Mrs_ for trusting me, with your dreams, deliver the cake, and exhale.

So cheers Mrs_ to a wonderful  future filled with hopes and dreams and joyful tears.

Love,Coco.