I Baked Myself a Fucking Cheesecake
I’m a 42-year old single guy who’s got no damn idea what he’s doing. At least that’s what my kitchen looked like when I tried to accomplish the ultimate feat of culinary exellence for people like me: a no-bake cheesecake from a YouTube chef. Her voice had the calming, reassuring sound that you usually associate with flight attendants when they explain how to use a life vest. As it turns out, the cake was kind of a life vest for me when it turned out that almost everyone on the guest list for my birthday party would be a no-show last night. I felt so pissed off that I vented all of my frustrations with a whisk into the cream cheese, furiously twisting it, mixed with lemon zest and that oh-so-refreshing grapefruit juice. It felt so good, so liberating. When your social life gives you lemons, make a lemon cheesecake, I guess.
It’s not exactly like climbing the Himalayas because an apron would do you no good if you don’t have snowboots. That’s why I decided on white chocolate topping mixed with orange zest, inspired by Sir Edmund Hillary. Not that it was much easier either, since in this patriarchal culture, you’re raised into believing it’s the lady’s task to bake cakes and it better not be too cheesy. Single guys are left to the good grace of others to provide them with a healthy diet. If you really believe it, you really do need a life vest, and not an edible one. In the middle of this whole ordeal I realised I was short on supplies. Fuck. This isn’t a hill worth dying on, so why does it bother me? My mother was good with cakes. She had that rare combination of skill and effort. There are many who are gifted with the former, but not the latter.
Anyway, I’m not a housewife but a home maker nevertheless. Who else would bake it for me otherwise? I would need my own sherpa in that case, but something tells me Tenzing Norgay’s skills didn’t include fine patisserie. The peaks in my bowl were made of whipped cream, not snow and ice. It wasn’t a tart either which doesn’t mean I don’t allow myself to act like one when the degrees outside hit too high. As long as they don’t leave me bruised, it’s fine. This little operation did bruise my birthday vibe a bit because it would have been lovely to share the cake with other people. To paraphrase Forrest Gump: life is like a cake, you never know who you’ll be sharing it with. Or not.
The cake turned out decent for a first shot. The white chocolate layer on top is sprinkled with raisins. What looks like mouldy coke is whey protein. I’m fooling myself that it makes this guilt-free but your birthday is once a year, unless you’re Queen Elizabeth. While I may be one too, the only thing that equals the square meters in her real estate portfolio is the space in my head inhabited by ideas like this. The top is as thick as concrete slab. I ate a piece that fell apart as soon as I put it on my plate. Now the delicious motherfucker is sitting in my fridge. I can’t possibly eat it on my own at once. You can try, but you’ll get sick from all that chocolate and the citrusy goo in the middle. The crust at the bottom rounds it up perfectly. It would give your palate a hard-on. Come over and I’ll shove it to you. Show, that is.
My misfire of a cake shower, something that I actually invented while typing this, made me rethink the criteria for future guest lists. For a while I entertained the thought of a supper club, where interesting people from all walks of life would hang out, but I’m much closer to Socialists than socialites for now. There’s no point in living like this, individualism is sometimes more of a burden than a blessing. Yet, in order for others to be kind to you, you need to be kind to yourself and there’s no way around it. I’m not a life coach unfortunately, so the paywall on Medium is the only thing forcing you to pay in order to hear what I’ve got to say. It seems I’ve got to marry in order to make people actually show up when I invite them.
You can’t manage your social life by adjusting to theirs all the time. If you’re on close terms, and the invitation comes early, either decline right away or accept. Caveats like “maybe” are a thrill kill because you end up like this: the table is set yet the seats are empty. Having a good excuse for missing out doesn’t change the fact that until late Friday, the guest list dissolved like trees in a Californian wildfire. I used to treat my whole life as a pitch for something, either an effort to impress you or to make up for the fact that I wasn’t what’s considered a good-looking guy. A full-fledged imposter syndrome. Not anymore. It’s take it or leave it, what you see is what you get. Maybe it comes with time, experience or merely a lesson you learned.
But let me assure you that everyone deserves it: a home-made cheesecake. As wobbly as my increasingly melting love handles. The effort in the gym is slowly showing and it feels good. This time it’s not about impressing anyone but myself. I’m getting there, it’s in the air. Not sure about pastry in the future, but let’s leave that door open. The place that cleanses my mind the most could be the kitchen, or at least that’s what I gathered from my little undertaking. The mission might look impossible, but it’s not. That much is clear now. You don’t need to be Jamie Oliver to learn how to line a baking tray or swing the whisk the right way. It’s as close to a home gym as possible and it’s wonderful. Maybe I’d even be good at this if I keep going.
Also, everyone deserves good company, good spirits and kindness. I allow myself to feel confused, disoriented or depressed because I know I will wake up from it stronger and more resistant than before. Hurdles are challenges and I love challenges. Without them life would be a silent, slow river that never wakes up. But since we only got this one opportunity, we should make the best of it or at least try to. Keep whisking until you reach that peak. In due time, it will show up. Because even if it’s sometimes hard to believe, time is kind, especially to wounds refusing to heal. It gets better.
I’m a 42-year old guy who’s got no idea what he’s doing. Damn, it feels good to get it off your chest. Open the window and the fresh air inside. Suddenly, you’re overwhelmed by love that’s been waiting in the wings because sometimes, you took it for granted. What a night. The breeze is combing through the curtains. The river pours its melody into your ears, lulling you to sleep. Just before waking up, there’s a barely audible earthquake, somewhere far away. However the epicenter of me, right now is here. This fire is burning and it smells like a cheesecake you forgot to take out of the oven. Mine It’s sitting on the bottom of the fridge next to a couple of beer cans and a jar of peanut butter. As the knife takes a dive through the white chocolate top, you feel the scent of orange zest. I think I’m happy.
