It’s All About the Cake
It’s cabin season in upstate Pennsylvania, and the vultures are on the move.
Cars laden with luggage, pillows, lawn chairs, coffeemachines, serving platters and glasses, coolers (with peanut butter fudge ice cream), wine, bathing suits, cameras, inner tubes, boogie boards, food for breakfast, food for lunch, food for dinner arrive on Boop Road for the annual summertime creekside fete.
And then there’s the car/motorcade that comes with the CAKE. The cherry nut Cake all the way from Scranton. A Cake so dense no weakling can carry it; a Cake so lushly moist and frosted no Weight Watcher can assign points to it; a Cake made so famous by its taste and allure entire meals are planned around it.
The Cake is legendary and wields great power. It has its own shelf in the refrigerator, a sizeable fan base and a handler/designated baker liaison who oversees ordering, transport and cake asset allotment on Sunday before departure. Beyonce should have this much influence.
“Where’s the cake?” a few of us ask upon arrival. “When are we going to cut it?” inquires another. “I get a corner piece,” declares a frosting addict. “This salad is great, but I’m really just pacing myself for the cake,” someone else confesses during Friday’s lunch.
Each year we come to the cabin to talk and laugh and relax and play and cement our longstanding friendships. The mortar? Buttercream, of course.