Authentically Fake

I used to think mindfulness meant focusing on one thing intently. I imagined it would be like trying to win a staring contest where it’s all about dry eyeballs and competition. It sounded like the opposite of inner peace, and the thought of being aware of my thoughts scared me. If mindfulness meant that I had to acknowledge how I felt, then I didn’t want it.

Throughout this past year since the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, I got divorced and lost my job. I started a new career because I needed to work at home so my kids could attend school virtually. I struggled financially and sold my car, and I still hadn’t even begun to cope with the death of my mother. My mind would race ahead to a fearful future or steal back in time to relive other moments where good things had turned bad. I multitasked my way through every day until I was overwhelmed because I only valued myself when I thought I was being productive enough.

I also wanted to keep moving at all times because I knew that if I stopped for a second or even just slowed down, it would remind me of my mom. My mom was accomplished at doing things slowly with a focused awareness, and she effortlessly stayed connected to the present moment. Mindfulness was her default setting. Every morning she’d awaken newly enraptured with the smell of freshly-brewed coffee. She ate slowly and made appreciative noises at her food. She never failed to admire a gorgeous sunset or a beautiful bird. Whenever her senses were fully engaged, she would delightedly ask, “Isn’t this fabulous?” She was excellent at giving moments all the attention they deserved.

I didn’t want to allow myself to fully feel my mom’s absence, so I turned away from sunsets, refused to look at birds, and I drank my coffee as fast as I could. But the pain had its own way of bubbling up to the surface and letting itself out. I found myself stomping around, boiling with anger at nothing, and generally making myself and everyone around me miserable. I didn’t want to comfort or soothe myself. I denied myself everything I wanted and then got mad that I didn’t have it.

One evening when a particularly spectacular sunset lit up the sky, I angrily grabbed a lawn chair and sat down in my backyard to look at it. Fine, I thought, let’s get this over with. I put on one of my mom’s favorite songs, closed my eyes, and thought about the last time we laughed, the last time we hugged, and the last time I walked out of her house knowing that I’d never see her again. The pain quickly clawed its way out, and it was harrowing. I was doubled over, gasping and sobbing like I’d been sucker punched in the gut. There was nothing I could do but let myself feel that familiar ache for my mom, that emptiness in my chest, and keep reminding myself that the cure for the pain is in the pain. I stayed outside until the yard was completely dark, and eventually a velvety peacefulness unfolded.

As I practiced listening to myself and following my intuition, I felt like I was returning to my authentic self. I gave myself permission to cry whenever I wanted to, and I found myself laughing again, too. Thoughts and ideas that I’d pushed aside a long time ago and judged as impractical still intrigued me, and I decided to explore them as a way to become aware of what I really wanted out of life. I got the message early on in life that doing what you love as a way to pay the bills is too risky. My mother loved to sing and play the piano, but she always had office jobs. My dad was a fantastic artist, but he worked as an accountant. Making an artistic endeavor into a career never seemed like an option to me. There wasn’t a lot of support or encouragement from my family to take that path. I loved art and I loved baking, but I never thought to put them together and explore a career in pastry arts. And out of my whole family, I was the only one who even liked to bake.

The only memory I have of my mom baking a cake was when I was about four years old. She was making a cake for my birthday, and I asked her to swirl the frosting so it looked just like the picture on the box of cake mix. She did a great job with the only decorating equipment we had, a butter knife, and I was ecstatic. She put the cake up in the cabinet when she was done because it seemed like the safest place for it. The next afternoon when my mom went to get the cake, I stood right by her, desperate to see that glorious cake again. To our horror, the cake was covered with ants. My mother had worked so hard on those icing swirls, and now there were so many ants swarming all over the frosting that it looked like the cake itself was moving. I was distraught. I absolutely could not fathom that her perfect cake was ruined. It left me with the impression that it wasn’t safe to have expectations.

My parents divorced when I was six, and my mom had to go to work to support us. Three other moms on our block were also getting divorced and getting jobs outside the home at the same time, so it seemed pretty normal to suddenly be a latchkey kid. My sister and I fended for ourselves after school until our mom got home from work, and that’s when I started digging change out of the couch cushions so I could buy baking ingredients at the corner store. I wanted the typical after-school cookies like all those other perfect families had on TV, even if I had to make them myself. The smell of cookies baking in the oven had the power to erase the worst day at school, and whenever I baked something, our new apartment felt more like a home to me. I missed my old neighborhood, my old friends, my old school, and our old house. I felt alone and lonely in our new surroundings, and baking cookies nurtured and fulfilled me. It became my safety net during the hardest times in my life.

In junior high and high school, I always signed up for Home Ec class. I reveled in all of the ironing, sewing, cooking, and baking, and it was thrilling to have my own kitchen station where I could bake during school hours. I hid my excitement because it wasn’t popular at my school to actually enjoy Home Ec.

Throughout high school and college, it never occurred to me to choose baking as an occupation, and no one in my family encouraged me to consider it. I was more focused on finishing school and getting it over with than trying to enjoy it while I was there. My family put a high value on accomplishments and income, so after I finished college, I focused on my career, which I didn’t love, and I didn’t make time for my hobbies anymore.

One day I happened to come across a cake decorating book, and I became instantly obsessed with the artistry of it. I started collecting all the books and magazines I could find about cake decorating, and I spent countless hours making cakes and practicing icing techniques, attempting to get my cakes to look as perfect as the ones in my books.

I was always offering to make cakes for my friends and birthday cakes for their children, and I really enjoyed making cakes for charitable organizations. By the time I decided that I really wanted to turn my cake decorating hobby into a business, I was married with two toddlers. My husband was not supportive of this idea, so I rarely baked or decorated cakes anymore unless it was for one of his friends. I loved being a mom and taking care of my kids, and I felt selfish about taking time away from them when they were so young. So I enjoyed my other hobbies of sewing, embroidery, and crochet when time permitted, and I forgot about trying to start a home baking business.

Even though I didn’t make time for baking and decorating anymore, I was still entranced by the pictures of expertly decorated cakes in my collection of books and magazines. I’ve been fascinated with the art of perfect food for as long as I can remember. I was instantly captivated the first time I saw the Candyland game board with it’s flawless rendering of conversation hearts, neapolitan ice cream, and gumdrops. As a child, I pored over the illustrations of cakes, candies, and ice cream in my favorite picture books and consumed every detail. I loved going to the grocery store with my mom and marveling at the perfection of the food packaging: the superbly swirled icing on the boxes of cake mix, the exquisite cherry-topped sundaes on the cartons of ice cream, the fabulous “serving suggestion” photos on the boxes of cookies. I wanted to live in that magical world of impeccably presented food.

Every picture of perfect food felt like a promise to me, and I felt cheated when reality couldn’t deliver. I couldn’t understand why my hot dogs didn’t have that decorative squiggle of mustard I’d seen everywhere. Why didn’t every cupcake have that quintessential frosting swirl and shiny cherry on top like all the pictures? Why weren’t my gumdrops as glistening and translucent as the ones illustrated on the box? I thought it was my fault for expecting too much or for counting on something before it happened.

I longed to connect with the little girl that I used to be and show her that she had every right to be hopeful and look forward to things. And in this last year, I discovered a new hobby that makes me feel like I’m finally being true to my authentic self, the child in me that delights in illusions and perfect food. I discovered the art of fake cakes. Transferring my cake decorating skills to other artistic media seemed like a natural fit for me, and I can easily fit it into my life and my schedule. Making cakes and decorating them is a big commitment of time, but with fake cakes it’s really easy for me to do little bits and pieces of work that I can stop and set aside to finish later.

Many times I’ll start four or five components of one bigger project and work on them here and there as time allows. I will usually start by spackling a cake dummy to make it perfectly smooth, and then I’ll go back the next day and “ice” it with gesso. I can start to make some fake candy or sprinkles out of clay and then I can put it away when I’m done working on it for the day without having to finish it. I usually have something that’s in the middle of drying, so each day I’m excited to wake up and check on my art projects. If things don’t go the way I planned, I get valuable information about what doesn’t work, and I can even use my not-so-perfect pieces to experiment with.

Through trial and error, I’ve been able to duplicate the translucent and glistening gumdrops I always wanted. I’ve achieved the perfect icing swirl on my fake cupcakes. I scoop up spackle to stand in for ice cream in my fake sundaes. I’ve been surprised how healing it has been for me to make fake sweets. I feel like I’m connecting to my younger self that always wanted something that didn’t exist, this picture-perfect food, and now I’m able to create it myself.

I even just recently started baking again after taking a long break from it, and I feel like I’ve come home. I’m even finding a way to bake in smaller steps so I can fit it into my schedule. Much like my fake sweets, I prepare separate components over the course of a couple of days. Then they’re ready for me to assemble and bake later. Now that the amount of change I can find in the couch cushions doesn’t have to dictate what I can bake, I’ve really enjoyed experimenting with new ingredients and baking things I’ve never tried before.

I also don’t force myself to finish things just because I started them anymore. I allow myself to simply change my mind and make a different decision without labeling it as “giving up” or “quitting” and feeling guilty about my choice. Mindfulness has pushed me to constantly ask myself if I’m enjoying what I’m doing. It’s made me become aware of the thoughts and ideas and beliefs that I’ve allowed to control my life, and now I can question if they are serving me any longer. I used to judge myself harshly for my unfinished projects, and the few times I pushed myself through to complete something I was not enjoying, I felt no satisfaction at the end.

Making the most of my time used to mean doing something productive, accomplishing something, finishing something. But now making the most of my time means enjoying every minute as much as I can. The reason I’m creating anything in the first place is to feel enjoyment, and if I don’t feel enjoyment until it’s finished, then I haven’t made the most of my time. I’d rather be satisfied while I’m creating something, not knowing if I will ever want to finish it, and knowing that it doesn’t matter if I do. I still have an embroidered quilt project that I take out and work on here and there, an unfinished crocheted blanket that I haven’t made a decision about yet, and about five other art projects lying around in various stages of completion.

Small steps and small changes are more valuable to me now because they give me the time and space to listen to my instincts. Without pressuring myself to choose one thing or to finish what I start, it helps me stay aware of how I feel about what I’m doing. Once I let go of the belief that I had to choose one hobby and be really good at it or that I had to finish everything I started, I was able to make better choices and feel better about the choices I made. The most important thing I’ve learned from my mindfulness breaks is that I always want to notice if I’m enjoying myself. I imagine my mom sitting next to me and asking, “Isn’t this fabulous?” And I always want to be able to emphatically answer, “Yes.”