National Pound Cake Day

“Did you know that out of all wines, the specific shade of a Merlot is scientifically the closest to the color of dried blood?”

Skylar presented the question as he inelegantly poured a glass of the red wine, enthusiastically indicating its brick red rim as evidence.

This was technically our first date, but two weeks of chatting online had shown me that this educational bit was a rising trend, and Skylar’s standard method for impressing people. We’d started talking in mid-February, sharing the dull demographic details in our digital introduction, where I mentioned never wanting children, loving all kinds of travel, and being a fan of a nice Pinot Grigio. I like to think that as gay men go, I'm a more interesting person than just indicated by just these facts, but I didn't need to give anything more juicy away before Skylar responded excitedly, “Lady Gaga’s song Grigio Girls is actually based off of my aunt’s sister!”

This peaked my intrigue, along with a morsel of suspicion. I followed up with genuine interest, and asked how his “aunt’s sister” (somehow not another aunt, nor his mother) had been acquainted with Lady Gaga.

“You know, it might have been a cousin, or perhaps her second cousin. I’m not sure actually; that’s just what I was told.” It was a surprising back-step from an already curious comment.

The next two weeks would show me that Skylar had a lot of these curiosities to share, and this was how he seemed to get out of a lot of his facts being checked: confessions that they were hearsay, or perhaps one-degree removed from himself as you pushed back on them. A song dedication turned out to be “possibly” tied to a distant relation, and a disturbing fact about turtles’ mating habits had revealed itself to be “something a partner told me years ago.” There were rumors about who caused oat milk to become so commonplace, an anecdote about when he’d been in the same diner as Mr. Rogers “or an identical doppelgänger,” and a dozen other comments connecting himself to any form of celebrity. Skylar was attractive, and one of those traditionally handsome guys who didn’t seem to rely on his looks to earn your attention. He seemed to have his own place, and a (debatably) decent job as a paralegal. There really weren’t very good reasons for him to be making up a history of unusual surprises, so I felt obligated to suspend some of the disbelief that triggered within me.

The tipping point of exasperation for me finally came earlier this very day in March, leading to us planning the location and timing of our official first date. I had firmly decided days before this that I would never actually go on a date with Skylar. The constant exaggeration felt like it had gone too far, and it was too much effort, holding back on all kinds of fact-checking for somebody I’d never even met. It also brought so much confusion; questions about why he would create such bizarre stories, with no expectation of being held accountable to them. I’d originally planned to begin the “busy, maybe next week” ghosting phases to avoid ever spending time with this guy, when he said this:

“We should find somewhere that serves pound cake tonight. It’s National Pound Cake Day, and my great, great, great Grandma Eliza invented pound cake!”

Perhaps it was the fact that I really hated pound cake, but this changed everything for me. When he threw out something as absurd as "Pound Cake Day," I decided this person needed to be stopped. I had no idea who he thought he was kidding, but I had a way to make him face it now. I had a chance to call him out on every stupid thing he’d made up. I’d be doing Lady Gaga, turtles, Mr. Rogers and even pound cake a service by making this date happen, before he created a million new facts about something like New York sewer systems or the breeding origin of pugs.

“This kind of disconnect from truth is what leads to political distrust, national disgrace, wars and more,” I pictured myself telling him. “Whatever kind of insecurity this is covering for, it’s time to deal with that. It is time to stop lying.”

In my head there would be a thundering of applause, as the entire restaurant had been suddenly become aware of this inappropriately confident man: the presumed heir to the pound cake legacy.

Once we settled on the date moving forward, I multi-tasked: plotting a flattering outfit while completely disfiguring my Internet search history. I decided that my red sweater would look especially stunning, as I served up a cold glass of justice. It was then that I noticed an alert connected to my exhaustive research: “Happy Pound Cake Day, March 4th.”

This gave me a moment of pause. You couldn’t be so lucky as to guess that kind of holiday, could you? “Perhaps Skylar is one of those oddballs that knows about weird holidays, which is about as much of a turnoff as making up a great, great, great Grandma’s achievements.” I shook off the discovery and ventured forward into a deep pit of baking history.

Suddenly, there it was. I discovered the American background of pound cake included in Directions for Cookery, in its Various Branches, one of the most popular cooking books of the 19th century, apparently. My eyes grew wide as I read that this book was credited to no other than one Eliza Leslie.

I slunk back, disheartened and defeated. Great, great, great Grandma Eliza was looking up from hell and laughing at me. Apparently Skylar had been caught in something even more unbelievable than I'd expected: a truth. I'd now be going to dinner with someone who was only guilty of a fascinating history, one that I’d refused to believe. I had only agreed to accompany him with the goal of proving him wrong, in as public a manner as possible.

I mournfully tossed aside my damning scarlet sweater for a dull, gray cardigan. I paused to glance at a white turtleneck, but thought this would have looked too falsely pure; like I was trying to hide my shameful, accusing past. I didn’t even want to go on the date anymore, upset with myself for suspecting Skylar so feverishly. I also realized that truthfully, I was just not very interested in him. The stories had been too bizarre to keep my attention at first, and now I was left to assume that, if anything, he was actually too good for me. An honest, sweet paralegal who wanted to share his pound cake inheritance with somebody that didn’t question everything positive in the world: someone who just believed in the good in people. My brand of doubt was probably what led to political distrust, national disgrace, wars and the like.

I tossed on my humble cardigan and headed for the restaurant, ready to make light conversation and move along through the evening, paying penance until the check came. “I won’t lead him on or push for another date,” I promised myself. “This is just to ease my conscience, and let him know he’s a great guy, for a paralegal, who deserves better.”

As we sat and Skylar poured the wine, I stared into his kind eyes, at the shaky way he cautiously poured the Merlot, all while he was educating me on the color of dried blood.

“How interesting!” I even exclaimed, viewing the glass intently and noticing the orange tone on the rim. “I think I’d prefer a Syrah transfusion, or maybe a Malbec,” I teased. This produced a look of disapproval from Skylar, who clearly had intended his fact to earn a better response. I decided to try bringing up previous conversations to show that I’d been paying attention.

“Happy Pound Cake Day, again,” I said with a smile. “I feel pretty lucky to be sharing it with a descendent of the original baker.”

“That’s right!” Skylar remembered. “My great, great, great Grandma Esther. I’m pretty sure she passed the secrets directly on to her children, all the way down to my parents. I probably have access to the original recipe, which is really different from the one people have altered and ruined today.”

I winced at the “probably” and “pretty sure” that littered his story, remembering how those would have thrown me earlier the same day. I also shuddered, thinking about what sort of god-awful cake the “original recipe” must have been. Then, I realized he’d made an error.

“Esther? I think it was Eliza, was’t it?”

Skylar stared at me, offended. “I mean, she was my relative, but sure. It’s the same name, really.”

This caused me to stare back in defense, a bit offended on behalf of this baking pioneer. “Eliza is possibly short for Elizabeth,” I allowed, “but Esther is a totally different name.” I may have had no right to challenge his Grandma’s name, I thought, but she was technically a historical figure. As such, she belonged to us all now. Like Cher, or Lily Tomlin.

Skylar looked like he was deciding if this was his hill to die on, before sharing, “I might be mixing her up with one of her children. She had about 15, like people did back then. I think one of them was Esther.” Looking uncomfortable with this live resistance to his stories, he excused himself to go to the restroom, while I found myself pulled into a whirlpool of confusion and mistrust.

“Anyone could mix up a name,” I reasoned. "Why would he brag about Eliza’s pound cake prowess though, and then mix up her first name in a retelling?" This had reintroduced the indifference to him that I’d felt earlier. The sweet demeanor of this pound cake prince was once again muddying into what was possibly a sneaky little paralegal of a person. I looked forward to the evening ending, and to spending no more odd moments with this oddball.

I sipped my Merlot and ordered another, coughing it back when I recalled the dried blood story. I decided to grab my phone and do a quick fact check on Eliza’s children. I was sure I wouldn’t be able to trace Skylar’s origin back to the 1800’s, but wanted to find a trace of evidence to cling to for myself; to be even more correct on the facts related to Eliza, his own great, great, great Grandma, on this her most sacred of days.

My phone immediately suggested “Eliza-” with dozens of pound-cake related offerings, evidence of a bitter past that had led to where I found myself now. I paused in reflection before manually typing in “…lots of children,” feeling like a petty fool as soon as I had. What would this even prove? I knew I wouldn’t ever intentionally see Skylar again, so whether these things were true or not, why did I need to know?

Then, I read it. A fact so timely, it was a perfect discovery. I immediately took a screenshot, and threw back the rest of my wine confidently, greedily grabbing at my second glass, poised for Skylar’s anti-triumphant return. I couldn’t wait to see the look on his face, as I pointed out my new fact: the reality that not only was he not possibly related to Eliza, the Pound Cake Queen of America, but nobody was.

Skylar texted me from the parking lot. “Sorry- wasn’t feeling well so I headed out. Take care of yourself.”

I could have screamed, but the wine had started bringing me down already. Skylar’s exit completely took the wind out of my self-righteous sails. Here I was, standing on the holy ground of righteous truth, and had nobody to strike down. In fact, I’d been rejected before even having the opportunity!

My discovered fact was that Eliza Leslie lived to be 70 years old and had no children in her entire life. Not even a single offspring was born that could lead to a worm like Skylar. "Famous for her recipes, she had friendships with other well-known people like Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson."

I grimaced at Jefferson’s name, considering his own history of political distrust, wars and the like, but granted Eliza a pass on unfortunate connections as the price of her fame. “Isn’t it mine to grant?” I thought. “She’s a historical figure that belongs to me more than Skylar now. Just like Cher or Lily Tomlin!”

I ordered another glass of Merlot to congratulate myself on this self-discovery, tipsy with righteousness, and sent my screenshot of shame immediately to Skylar’s number before deleting him from my phone forever.

“Happy Pound Cake Day to ME!” I stated aloud, earning frowns and glares from the entire restaurant, who had been suddenly clued in to my existence: a slightly intoxicated, yet appropriately confident, single person. "I'm just like Eliza," I decided. "A strong individual who craves adventure, and doesn't need children to feel a sense of purpose. No tagalong paralegals like Skylar will hold me back or be taking credit for my brilliance."

I was Eliza, she was me, and maybe I was a little drunk now.