Journey to Kay's Kitchen

“A moment on the lips, forever on the hips.” My mother’s voice rings in my head like a warning bell as I hasten down the street, pulling my coat tighter to my chest against the November wind.

Kay’s Kitchen doesn’t close for hours, but I keep my quick pace, lest I lose my nerve and retreat. I keep my eyes down as I pass strangers on the street, wondering if they can sense my anxiety and shame, or if after one glance at me they know what I’m about to do.

I should relax. I’m thirty-three today. I’m not over the hill, though Mother would like me to think I’m an old maid. I’m sure she’ll remind me that time is ever dwindling, and I only have so long to secure a husband and start a family. Tick tock, tick tock.

Birthdays nowadays are a reminder of everything I haven’t accomplished. They used to be exciting, like I achieved something. Old enough to drive, old enough to drink, and so on. Now they just mean a call from my mother reminding me of everything I still need to do for my future that gets smaller and smaller with each rotation of the sun.

I feel for my phone in my pocket as I dash across the street, acquiring a long honk from a disgruntled old man pulling out of his parking space. I wave in apology, and he shakes his head, muttering something to himself.

I don’t dwell on his poor mood, because as I step on the sidewalk and finally glance at my screen, I can see I have yet another missed call from my mother. It’s enough to stop me in my tracks, and now I get a huff from a young lady who almost bumps into me and has to go around.

My feet are firmly planted, and I have the sudden urge to turn around and go home, or to stay here until I take root in the cracks on the sidewalk of the main drag. I’ll turn into a grand old tree over time, and people will stop to stare at my bountiful branches. Mother will scoff as she passes, complaining that my foliage casts too much shade over the entrance to her favourite dress shop.

MOTHER: 3 MISSED CALLS.

Pressing my lips together, I shove my phone back into my pocket and pursue the bakery with a determined stride. It’s only down the block. I can make it before my brain forces my feet back to my little apartment.

When I push myself through the door under the pink-and-white striped awning, what hits me first is the overwhelming scent. A mix of milk chocolate, sugary candies, cake batter baking and cinnamon rolls being removed from the oven wafts through the air. It’s heaven. The dreamy pastel décor catches my attention next, and finally the smiling middle-aged lady behind the counter.

“Getting your own cake for your birthday?” she says as she rings up my order. “That’s not right.”

“I don’t usually have one,” I say. It’s been years since I’ve celebrated with one. When she frowns at me I force a quick smile. “My friends will buy me a drink.” Maybe I’ll share a piece of my purchase with them, if I'm not too mortified to let anyone know what I’ve done.

My heart is racing from adrenaline as I take the box wrapped in a pretty blue bow, clutching it tightly. Once I slip out of the store I glance both ways down the street, afraid my mother will pop out from an alleyway, her long fingernails braced like bird talons ready to snatch my dessert away, her figure menacing despite being so petite.

But she’s not there, and no one else walking past pays me and my purchase any mind. A smile slowly crawls over my face as a heavy weight I’ve been lugging around for years evaporates off my shoulders. I hurry home out of excitement, my pace even faster than it was on the way here.

Back at my apartment I sit at the kitchen table, staring at the white box a long time before daring to unwrap it. I’m gentle with the ribbon, not wanting to disturb what’s inside in case it jumps out like a monster and reminds me I shouldn’t be doing this.

Instead it’s sitting in there quietly, with a welcoming “Happy Birthday Caroline” scrawled in pink on blue icing. It’s the most beautiful birthday cake I’ve ever seen.

I gingerly cut out a small slice of the chocolate cake and set it on a plate. I snap a picture with my phone, making sure to find good lighting to showcase all of its delicious details, and finally pick up my fork and take the first bite.

The icing melts in my mouth, and the sweet taste of the chocolate completely takes over my senses. I sink back into my chair, sighing in contentment. I eat each bite with purpose, savouring it, making sure to remember this moment.

When I’ve cleared my plate, I send the picture to my mom, writing, “Happy birthday to me!”

It’s two seconds before her call pops up on my phone again. This time I answer with a coy smile on my lips, and maybe a little icing.