This Cake's for You

In a land not too far, far away—in sunny southwest Minneapolis, in fact—there lives a lovely little family with a mom named Ali, a dad named Harry, two boisterous big brothers named Sam and Jack, and a little butterfly fairy child sister named Lucy.

On most sunshiney summer days, you'll find this lovely little family running and skipping, splashing and fishing, laughing and shouting, hugging and tussling, and twirling and whistling and jostling and whirling around on toes and bikes and other wheeled whatnots. Just as summer sunsets over the lake never linger as long as one wishes, such family-fun days pass far too quickly for this devoted and delightful crew, making the moments, with their fleetness and sweetness, all the more precious and full of a certain sense of wonder.

They—the wise ones, the philosophers, the prophets, the earthbound angels, the teachers among us—say that life is a circle, and surely so is each and every day; we rise, we play, we work, we wonder, we laugh, we cry, we touch one another, we sigh, and we sleep... and so it begins again.

With cake number fifty-two, gifted to the fantastic Certain family, this little cake project has now come full circle, both in terms of time and in terms of intention, dedication, and admiration. Over a year ago, the Certains were all recovering—steadily and strongly—from brother Jack's second kidney transplant, which had followed a harrowing time of increasing illness, far-too-frequent dialysis, and a nerve-wracking wait for a perfect kidney match (which came—hoorah!—just in the nick of time from this amazing woman). As Jack and the entire clan began to feel better, they no longer needed folks like me to cook the occasional dinner and bake up the occasional treat. With lonely cake pans, I wasn't sure what to do—until Carla suggested I bake a cake a week and give the cakes away. And so I did. And so has come—eventually and only a LITTLE over a year later—the very last cake.

This full-circle, full-heart cake is soaked in chocolate-infused cream, covered in ripe raspberries, and full of secrets and secret wishes: for long lives, for enormous amounts of laughter, for more hugs than can be counted, for winning basketball shots and soccer goals, for much twirling about, for many handstands, and for love, love, love. These are, after all, the finest of ingredients (which, if truth be told, I've secretly wished into every cake I've baked). 

A few lessons from cake #52:

Never give up.

Love those who need healing (and we all need healing).

At times, the "This Cake's for You!" project has seemed like it would never end. Thought up over a year ago here in sunny southwest Minneapolis on a walking path along the Minnehaha Creek, not far from glittery Lake Harriet, the project has entailed an endless weekly round of the cracking of the eggs, sifting of the flour, zesting of the rinds, sprinkling of the sprinkles, and creaming of the sugar and butter (cumulatively speaking, pounds and pounds and pounds of butter). Then there's been the hours upon hours of planning and writing and tearing up over the wonderfulness of all those for whom I've baked. But now, at cake fifty-one, I'm grateful the project has stretched out for eternity so long, since had it been any shorter, I might not have decided to make a cake in honor of the full-on Minnesota niceness—both inside and out—of my (newish) friend Lea, fantastic recipient of penultimate cake number fifty-one.

I met Lea just a few short months ago when I started a new contract placement at an important large company that makes important small things that help people live longer, happier, and laughter-filled lives, which all turn out to be very important lives in the end. Although not assigned to my rather gnarly and monstrous project, Lea is a member of my team and she tackles her own gnarly assignments with an aplomb that is beyond admirable: she faces each one with intelligence, sensitivily, and tremendous calm, even when others are caught up in panic. For that, Lea should have cake whenever she wants. Why else? She's supportive and cheerful. She is the queen of LOLs and LMAOs and reigns over the emoji in interoffice instant messaging. She has dark-blue eyes that open wide with excitement whenever she tells a story. Plus, she love horses, is adopting a rescue puppy, and has a tender, somehow childlike heart of goodness. Perhaps most notable—and the best reason ever for giving Lea cake at this moment in time—is this: Lea has given herself wholeheartedly (and selflessly) to supporting her dear father-in-law (and her husband and her mother-in-law and her whole family of children and siblings and nieces and nephews and in-law siblings and children) while her father-in-law, a lover of Polka dancing and general Midwestern merriment, has undergone heart surgery, then complications, and then pneumonia. It's been an anxious time, to say the least, with long rides to the hospital after work and on weekends, as well as the need to learn basic nursing so as to make sure the official nurses are caring as well as they can. In fact, instead of being bitter because she's had to advocate for her elderly father-in-law, caught up as he is in the machinery that is our healthcare system, she's considered becoming one of those angels who helps older folks recover from illness with dignity and grace. And the stress has not worn her down; Lea's basic impulse is to meet the world, in the face of both joys and heart-breaking challenges, with a smile. Wow—lots of cake for Lea, please.

Last week, in full knowledge that she would be getting a "This Cake's for You!" cake but without letting on, I surreptitiously asked Lea about her favorite cake. She paused just a moment, then confessed to loving what I now know is an extremely popular Betty Crocker cake from yesteryear: the Better Than Sex cake. How intriguing. A little research revealed that it wouldn't be such a great "This Cake's for You!" cake (it's a 9x13-incher, and is not a from-scratch cake, calling for Betty Crocker cake mix instead of the basics), so I thought I'd try another of Betty's cake recipes (albeit one that's also not *totally* from scratch, since it calls for cream-filled cookies). But the cookie-sour cream cake would be perfect: Midwesternly unassuming on the outside but packed with sweet surprises on the inside, just like Lea.

This cake was easy peasy to make, and you just have to love Betty for her no-nonsense instructions: put all ingredients (except the chopped-up cookies) in a bowl; beat for a good few minutes; stir in cookies; bake. Ta-da—a deliciously golden and glossy cake for Lea. All it lacked once it had cooled on the wire rack was an even glossier topping of milk-chocolate ganache, with a few half cookies nestled in.

I'll be bringing Lea's cake to work tomorrow to surprise her at the end of the day. It won't just be a tribute to her humor, beautiful heart, and devotion to her family. It will also be a sweet farewell, since Lea's leaving our important and large company to take on even more interesting projects that will benefit from her experience and smarts. I will miss her, but am also so glad for her new colleagues; they are in for such a treat.

A few lessons from cake #51:

There's something extremely satisfying in chopping up cream-filled cookies fresh from the package; try it, then sprinkle the crumbs on stuff!

People suffer and support one another, bear pain and soothe one another, age and become childlike with one another, smile and nevertheless grieve. Meet them with love and cake.

With the bright summer sunbeams glinting off lakes, bicycle fenders, and lawnmowers here in sunny southwest Minneapolis, life is as sparkly as can be. But sparkles and glints are not just a summer phenomenon in this neighborhood; even during the all-too-many dark-and-under-piles-of-snow months, surfaces shine and glow—at least in Carla and my little bungalow and thanks to the dedication and efforts of our friend Donna, who helps us keep things tidy and as cat fur-free as possible, given the omnipresence of resident felines Fleur Simone and Nigel Dapper Longstockings. That's certainly worth cake, and lots of it, which is why Donna is the recipient of the golden anniversary cake of the "This Cake's for You!" project, cake number fifty.

Donna has been a quiet but keenly felt—and fully appreciated—presence in our itty-bitty home for some years now. Without her, we'd be in a big mess—literally. She's patiently cleaned around piles of many, many things that have been stacked up and added to and not moved for many, many months, only to be replaced by piles of much of the same things, with a few extractions and another few novel additions, moved just a few inches away from the originals. She's got a knack for knowing what cleaning elixers will take out which strange and unidentifiable sitcky spots, and just how much scrubbing power is needed to accomplishe the feats before her. She's offered to clean our oven, without any prompting whatsoever. She's funny, wrote us a sweet note when Nigel finally drummed up the courage to brave the vaccuum cleaner and say hello to her for the first time, and lugs quite a bit of professional-looking equipment up and down the front steps, lickedy split and nearly never breaking out in a sweat. In short, she puts up with us. And she's unfailingly supportive; with every room we finally spruce up with paint, or make more liveable with carpeting or art, or simply tidy up on our own before she arrives, she says encouraging things like, "The house is coming along!" and "Things are looking so nice," which makes us feel that home ownership isn't such a pteryodactyl an albatross after all, but might actually be someting of a satisfying and creative and nurturing end in itself. 

So what sort of cake to make for Donna? The cake had to be fresh and invigorating, that I knew, just like Donna—and just the way that Donna makes our house feel when she's come and gone. I also thought that, given all the lugging and lifting and traipsing from house to house that she does, she might appreciate a cake that would slice easily and, once wrapped in wax paper or tucked into a baggie, could simply slip into a pocket and be on hand for a snacking emergency. With all this in mind, along with the hunch that Donna would likely appreciate a bit of chocolate somehow worked into the cake, I settled on an orange sour-cream and chocolate-chip pound cake. So apt to be thrilling and generous of flavor! So likely to bake up golden and glowing in honor of its being the fiftieth cake in the "This Cake's for You!" project! So unlikely to be any kind of problem at all, especially with respect to any threat of falling and turning into a sinkhole before my very eyes! Right? Right, right, and wrong. Big wrong.

Perhaps fittingly, given that none of the other forty-nine cakes have failed completely; or perhaps due to some chemical shenanigans between the baking powder, baking soda, and sour cream; or perhaps due to the fact that I attempted to turn the pan in the oven at some critical moment when the top of the cake was heading up, up, up but only half-heartedly and undecidedly; or perhaps due to all three, the cake fell—really, really fell—while it had twenty minutes left to bake—and it never rose again. In fact, it fell even more once I took the pan out of the oven, whimpered just a little, and slid it onto the cooling rack. Although fragrant and glowing, this cake was a lost cause. The only thing to do, it seemed, was to hum the cake a durge and pledge to try, try again. After all, Donna never gives up in the face of our mess! So who was I to give up? What I needed was a clean sweep, a second attempt, and the faith that wholeness can following collapse, if I would just keep at it.

And so that's what I did. I made another, with all the creamining, and zesting, and folding in of minichocolate chips, and multiple peeks into the oven, and hands off until the timer went off, and granting of five extra minutes of baking for good measure, and muttering of very quiet hoorahs upon removal from the oven, and a little holding of the breath as the cake sunk a teeny, tiny tad as it began to cool, and a grand exhale when stability settled in and it looked like the cake was a keeper. Phew. The only tricky maneuver left was the mixing of the sour-cream icing, which came off without a hitch, probably because I had made sure to have extra confectioners sugar and sour cream on hand as backup.

Since Donna is sort of lke a ninja, she mostly comes and goes without my seeing her, and so I'll leave her boxed-up cake on the table for her to discover, take home, and enjoy as a chocolate-chip-covered token of Carla and my sincerest appreciation.

A few lessons from cake #50:

You can't always know what makes something turn out not so well, which likely means that you can't always know what makes something turn out well in the end; the most one can do is to try, sit tight, try again, and ask for help if the result is a mess that's too much for you to handle all by your lonesome.

You don't have to know someone well to have them be an intimate part of your life and for you to be tremendously, fantastically grateful for the slender and not-so-slender threads that hold you together.

Stepping out in sunny southwest Minneapolis can mean all sorts of things now that summer's at its height. One thing it often means for Carla and me is a Sunday-morning stroll to our neighborhood farmer's market, where we usually find produce galore brought to us by local farmers, bread from our nearby bakery, balloons twisted into goofball animals by Balloon Guy, our favorite (and by now famous) food trucks (like this one and this one), plus honey and herbs and cave-aged cheese and flowers and songs and pickled stuff and gardeners who give advice about your apple tree that might have blossom blight and friends. No friends we tend to see, however, are as stunning and fabulous as the dear one we got to see today (and none, certainly, have shoes that are as cool as hers). That gal would be our pal Heidi, whom we'd arranged to meet for a hello-amongst-the-bounty and a bite to eat. Of course, all that was just a pretense to hand over cake number forty-nine as a tribute to all of Heidi's stunning fabulosity.

I've always known that Heidi would get a cake, since a) she loves sweets, b) she has amazing hair, and c) she will absolutely cream you on the tennis court if you're anyone other than Serena Williams a wickedly good player. Fabulous though these attributes are, they're the small stuff. What makes Heidi so darn stunning is that, for example, she has perfect taste and an eye for style, color, pattern, and panache that is rare anywhere, and she puts all of that talent into beautiful designs, many of which have very, very likely turned up in your office or have been stuck to your refrigerator or have had unexpected love notes scribbled on them (yes; you can thank Heidi for those). And despite being one of the cool trend spotters and therefore naturally endowed with the right to be aloof and snobby if she so chose, she's just the nicest person on the planet: kind and good willed and generous with her laugh, plus incredibly loyal and depend-upon-able, which means that her friends and family love her to bits. She's also married to handsome and talented Scott, who works hard, loves hot summer days, and runs up and down (and up and down) the stairs when it's too cold to hit the road, which it often is up here in the northland. Sometimes when she travels to one of her favorite places and the tropical breezes welcome her back and the butterflies flop about because life is pleasant and Heidi is there, Heidi sends back photos of her face turned toward the sun and her toes in the sand. Which brings me to her shoes. Since Heidi loves beauty, Heidi loves beautiful shoes. She has many and they're fantastic in exactly the way she is: smart, sassy, classy, interesting, daring, and much of the time darling. That should be of no surprise. After all, if the shoe fits....

For some time now I thought that when it came time to bake Heidi a cake, I'd try try to be fashion forward (so as to live up to Heidi's high standard) and attempt a leopard-print cake. But that seemed too tricky for me when I learned that Scott, with whom Heidi would surely share her cake, needs to stay miles away from gluten. After all, it's one thing to attempt fancy batter patterning using ingredients with which you're a bit familiar, but it's another thing entirely when you try to do those kinds of maneuvers with rice flours and nut flours and such. So instead, I made up my mind to make this beauty, a nutty-buttery-fruity-&-creamy cake that would perhaps be a tie-up espadrille wedge if it were a shoe.

While I quaked a bit at the thought of having to slice a nut cake into two in order to fill it with yummy sweet cream, I was willing to take the risk, and all seemed to get off to a great start once I hunted down the wholemeal rice flour and stocked up on the marscapone. But I also had some suspicions that things could take a worrisome turn when I noticed that the recipe prophet's instructions were a tad vague. And I was a little right. First, the cake smelled quite done when the timer still showed twenty minutes on the clock. Oh dear. And when I took a peek... oh dear again: either the sides of the cake had risen more than they should have, or the middle of the cake had sunk (blast those tricky rice and nut flours). No matter which was true, it just didn't look right. But the cake was golden and smelled delicious and it tested done, so I decided not to ditch give up on it, but rather to forge ahead with what little optimism still remained. That said, I totally chicken out on slicing the cake in two; instead, I whipped up the cream and marscapone, stirred in the powdered sugar, sliced strawberries, and gorgeously ripe raspberries, and filled in the dip in the cake's center. I figured that however you fill a cake with sweetened loveliness is the right way to fill it. I hope I figured right.

When Carla, the cake, and I arrived at the farmer's market, there was Heidi, glam as ever in flat black strappy sandals with gold ornamental metal plates, the kind of shoes that the god Mercury surely wore for his more important forays. Lucky for us, Heidi was able to linger and chat before speeding off, cake box in tow, to her next adventure.

A few lessons from cake #49:

Inspired artists and designers like my friend Heidi know that experimenting with new materials like wholemeal rice flour (which apparently is what the British call brown rice flour) can result in beauty and unexpected surprises. Sometimes it results in more of the latter than the former, but oh well; fill in the flat spots with cream and you can hardly go wrong.

The right shoes really do make the outfit.

It's hard to believe that July's full moon has already arrived in sunny southwest Minneapolis's night sky. But arrived it has, in all of its regal and resplendent glory, sending those memories of early spring snowstorms and late spring drenchers easily into the shadows. Yes, it's high summer and high time to be grateful for the light of all shining beings, celestial and otherwise. That's not hard when the midsummer moon is so beautiful and you know someone like my friend Rajni, a king of a guy who's as peachy keen a fellow as you can ever hope to meet, let alone befriend, and the recipient of cake number forty-eight.

I first met Rajni oh so long ago when the earth was young—way back in 2006 or so. Around that time I was in the process of deciding to leave academia (although I didn't fully realize it), essentially prepping to jump what seemed to me to be a lumbering and soon-to-be sinking ship, but one on which I'd been for quite a while. It was an uncomfortable time, an anxious time, and a scattered time. But by the grace of the stars spinning above, I was inspired to find someone or some place from whom/which to learn meditation. And when I stumbled into this serene and grace-filled place, I found myself in a beginning meditation class led by Rajni. Not yet a friend, he was a friend in waiting: patient, and shining, and gentle. Most amazing of all, he didn't blink an eye when, after that first class and even before he could put his jacket on, I hit him with a barrage of questions that likely seemed quite aggressive but which were, in reality, more desperate and yearning than anything else, and he quietly said, "Why don't you just come back next week for our second class?" If I had the vision then that I have now, I would have seen a golden crown pop into existence above his head and settle on down into its proper place.

That simple piece of advice, and that kinder-than-kind response changed my life profoundly, so much so that a universe full of treasure chests or songs or butterflies or starlight or friendship or anything else so precious that your eyes fill with tears even thinking of it will never, ever repay my debt. But I can certainly give Rajni a cake and note how tremendously awesome he is. He is, for example, from the East Coast, which in my book places him in a category of splendor from the get-go. Then there's the fact that he is a stealthy wit who is able to deliver incredibly funny jokes so deftly that you might miss them if you're not paying attention. He is creative and charming, spinning words with ease, and is the kind of loving parent—the kind of loving human—whom his children will surely aspire to emulate, whether they have children of their own or are otherwise lucky to have pets or plants or true friends. He was inspired to marry Joann, who is radiant with intelligence, compassion, and beauty, and who was equally inspired to marry Rajni on a hot but stunning summer day not too long ago. And he somehow draws in friends of great talent, depth, and cosmic influence, all the while making it look easy, so that if one weren't moderately emotionally mature, one might be rather jealous. But one shouldn't be jealous of a king; one should rightfully admit his greatness and bake him something.

I know from past experience that when it comes to baked goods, about which he is something of an expert, Rajni likes fruity things and coffee-cake-like things. Since golden, ripe peaches are rolling into grocery aisles all around town these days, and since I ran across this recipe for what promised to be a coffee cake fit for royalty, calling as it does for cardamom and pistachios in addition to those summer-ripe peaches, I knew exactly what to do for him. But my plans were nearly thwarted when I could find neither freshly ground green cardamom powder nor raw pistachios at my local purveyor of peaches and whatnot; the best I could do was pull out my familiar ground cardamom from here and chop up some salted roasted pistachios that Carla wisely advised I not try to desalt via rinsing. These improvisations would have to do; even with some ingredient swapping and slights of hand, the cake would be perfect for Rajni.

Having received a few more dashes of cardamom than the recipe called for—for good luck and good measure—the cake baked up tall and fragrant and glimmering with that buttery-sugary-spicy topping that makes coffee cakes just about the greatest things since sliced bread. After a few minutes sitting on the cooling rack, that spectaculosity was further topped (literally) with a few swirls of icing and a generous sprinkling of pistachios. Then the cake and I were set to hit the road in search of Rajni.

I found Rajni once again in that same grace-filled place where I first met him and where he was helping to make a wonderful day as wonderful as it could get. How perfect. Not only could I offer him a truly inadequate and small but nevertheless heartfelt thanks for the gift of his teaching and his friendship, but I could also thank him for all the wonderfulness he was making possible at that very moment. I know that his last impulse is to seek thanks for all that he does and all that he means to those whose lives he's made better. But that only means he deserve so much more—so very much more.

A few lessons from cake #48:

It's a fact that splendid people of kingly or queenly excellence—those folks who deserve accolades and admiration and tiaras—often come in the guise of truly humble humans (like my friend Rajni) who rather hate being called kingly or queenly. Whenever you come across them and with all due respect, feel free to forego acquiescing to their desires to remain unnoticed. In fact, clap loudly in praiseful applause and give them cake.

Thank your teachers. Please.

While summer's radiance has perked up people and peonies alike here in sunny southwest Minneapolis, things have been a bit dimmer than they might otherwise be. My dear pal Katie the Greatie has been sad and under a wave of grief over the passing of her lovelier-than-the-loveliest mom, Joan (recipient of the "Marvelous Muz" cake and a joyous soul who will be missed and missed). While that grief has been tempered a bit by relief that marvelous Muz is no longer suffering—and oh dear did she suffer so, and oh my even in light of Joan's grace and strength it was hard to watch, especially for dear Katie—Katie is still exhausted by the weight of Joan's decline and all the work that it's taken to get things in order. She's somehow managed to find a few days to escape to a quiet lake in a place called "Up North" (which is what the native Minnesotans call it; I have no idea where this is, exactly), and I wanted to give her a cake she could keep all to herself (and share with her traveling companion, Jazzy the Silly Noble, a sweet but sometimes befuddled-looking dog, if she's so inclined).

Apart from Carla, Katie's probably the most mentioned gal on the "This Cake's for You!" blog, and while she got a pie that was related to a cake that I made in honor of her love for Gloria, who got the very first "This Cake's for You!" cake, she's not received a cake that was created only for her (plus a goofy sidekick). But she's so great that she should get cake every day—for her heart-melting smile and her contagiously stupendous laugh; for the fact that when she taught first grade, she had a princess throne from which she'd read (with a crown atop her head, and also, I think, a scepter in hand) stories to all the adoring, beloved little ones in her kingdom; for her love for every living creature, especially the kitties and puppies and guinea pigs and other most-of-the-time small and vulnerable animals, the sorts of which escape me but that probably include birds and hamsters, to whom she's opened her door; for the fact that there's nothing greater than a party thrown by Katie (seriously; she threw a Charlie-and-the-Chocolate-Factory-themed birthday party for herself, with amazing snacks, a pledge that invitees had to sign upon entry, concession stands, and a few ridiculous party games, at which she projected the film onto a sheet in her backyard on a wistful spring evening); for the fact that she should get the next Nobel Peace Prize for generosity; for her green thumb and terrific cooking and crafting flair and teaching expertise that's currently helping a bunch of awesome teens who face some tough challenges make it through high school happy and healthy and even more whole than before. For all of that, and the fact that her friends love her more than they can say, she should have cake now and always.

But baking for Katie isn't the easiest. She prefers to tiptoe around white flour and refined sugar, and as you well know, white flour and sugar are hard to avoid in much cake-bakery. Then there's the rather unbelievable fact that she neither appreciates nor tolerates the presence of raisins, which she regards as a colossal waste of otherwise perfectly wonderful grapes. While you may scoff and think that this abhorrence for raisins poses no particular problem, take a moment to reflect on this: cake recipes that call for whole wheat flour instead of white and that also call for nonrefined sweet stuff of some kind in place of refined sugar often—if not really, really often—call for raisins. Oh dear.

My solution to—nay, my celebration of—the conundrum was to bake Katie the Greatie a rustic cake (great for traveling) that called for cornmeal (and only a bit of white flour) and whole, never-to-become-raisins grapes. (What I used to sweeten this cake I'll keep to myself). Eggs, olive oil, a splash of vanilla, a dash of salt, some grated citrus rind, and a bit of baking powder were the only other things I had to scrounge for, and with my trusty Hamilton Beach hand mixer held high and my thrift-store spring-form pan at the ready, I set at it and the cake came together as if it were meant for the greatest pal in the world. And so it was.

Since Katie has been in on a number of "This Cake's for You!" cakes and has sort of received  a few of them, she was entirely surprised as I handed over the boxed-up beauty when Carla, niece Bernie, and I met Katie and Gloria at this fun (gosh; they have a photo booth and drizzle olive oil over home-made soft-serve ice cream!) pizzeria. But her surprise didn't stop her from picking up a fork, having a bite, passing the box around for others to have a nibble, too, and then foregoing the fork to have another nibble post-pizza. She liked it. Ain't that the greatest?

A few lessons from cake #47:

Grief is like a wave that sweeps in according to a rhythm well beyond our understanding and control; the best we can do is hold hands until it sweeps out again.

Grapes are yummy when they're hot and bursty and nestled into golden-sweet cake (don't tell the raisins).

Carla and I sure do count ourselves lucky here in sunny southwest Minneapolis. Our neighborhood is, in our humble opinions, the prettiest in this neck of the woods, with lovely maple trees trying their hardest to gain the stature of their fallen elm predecessors, flower gardens bursting at the seams and shouting hello to all those who stroll by, and front yards filled with prairie grasses, tomato plants, or neatly and lovingly trimmed lawns. Of course, this loveliness doesn't just spring up all on its own (although I think the fairy houses may have). No; it takes the special touch of resolute, resourceful, and all-around wonderful neighbors to make that kind of magic happen. And we're among the blessed to have that sort of person in (drumroll, please!) our neighbor Mike, who not only makes loveliness happen, but also happiness, and serenity, and "I'm sure glad to know him" affection in all those who call him friend. That's why Mike gets this week's cake.

Now, I've baked for Mike in the past as small gestures of appreciation for all that he does for Carla and me. But one can't bake enough for a neighbor who says things like, "Say; I've noticed that the decrepit sidewalk running along the side of your house, the one slanting in toward the foundation and that probably sends water right into your basement, could be causing you trouble. Would you mind if I rent a jackhammer, break up the sidewalk, haul away the mounds concrete, and then grade the ground while putting down new sod? I thought maybe I'd plant a few lilac bushes." Well, gee, Mike. No; we don't mind at all. One cannot whip up enough muffins for a fellow who is married to Vicki, the loveliest and sweetest flower in the entire neighborhood who is the essence of charm and grace. One cannot produce enough tortes for a guy who always mows one's lawn—and trims the edges with a trimmer—without fail in the summer and snow blows like a ninja blower all winter long (which up here in the far-off northland is around eight months of the year, maybe nine). There are not enough cookies for a neighbor who notices when your gutters need cleaning, and then cleans them, and who has a giant cat named Jake whom he faithfully searches out when Jake escapes for a tour around the yard. Geesh, there's not enough of anything awesome to properly thank Mike for that terrificness, nor enough words to convey how great it is to live next to that kind of person. So a cake will have to do. For now. And anyway, Mike is getting surgery in a few days, and because of that, if not more than ever, he deserves the best good feelings that one can send his way.

Since Mike is such an admirable neighbor, it goes without saying that he must be a stellar dad to his bright and beautiful daughters and a grandpa extraordinaire to the little grandchildren, the kind of dad and granddad who is a source of enough good will and quarters to buy a kid a treat from the ice-cream truck as it rolls through the neighborhood. That's why Mike's cake was inspired by the ice-cream-truck classic: the drumstick cone... that, and the fact that Bernie our niece brilliantly suggested it while noting that Mike needed a cake chock-full of protein, given all the mowing and snow blowing and gutter cleaning that he does. So I immediately flipped open one of my go-to cake-bakery books and paged through it to find a particular white cake with glossy chocolate icing. It called for eggs! It called for whipping cream! It called for more eggs and chocolate and a number of cups of sugar! That, we reasoned, would be enough protein to keep Mike going through many seasons, including a visit to the hospital.

This was a fun cake to bake, not in the least because the recipe called for a square pan, which adds a dashing air to many cakes. Second, all the fat was to come from cream, which is rather thrilling. Third, while the recipe prophet warned that the cake's noble dome would likely fall while cooling, this cake did no such thing, but remained grand and robust and strong and proud, just like Mike. And finally, the old-fashioned chocolate icing gooped and slid down the cake's sides and didn't mind the addition of peanuts at all. Nor did it object to a final sprinkling of nuts on the top. What a fine cake, indeed.

Since I had asked Vicki if Mike liked peanuts earlier in the day, Mike may have been tipped off to the surprise delivery. No matter. After I walked the cake over and as the sun was starting to dip behind the rooftops and maples, Mike answered the door, pleased and smiling his handsome smile and taking the cake box with a nod and a genuine "You shouldn't have." But Mike; yes I should have. And there's more where that cake came from.

A few lessons from cake #46:

Fate, or fortune, or karma, or no reason at all sometimes plops you down right next to a person who is all goodness and gladness, and you think, "This person deserves a parade, with floats and balloons and streamers and a marching band, plus baton twirlers and a top hat": if this happens and you're short on time, bake that person a cake.

Extra frosting is never a problem.

It doesn't take much for things to make a splash these days in sometimes sunny southwest Minneapolis. We've had rain, floods rain, and wetter-than-ever basements even more rain. In fact, there's been so much rain that jokes that would make no sense elsewhere are really funny (and true ) here, jokes like this one:

Carla: How did the fish cross the road?

Me: I don't know; how did the fish cross the road?

Carla: It swam! [And she points to a photo taken by our pal Amy, recipient of cake number eleven, of a fish swimming across the road—literally.]

But while it's hard NOT to splash when you're in your own basement out and about, it takes a little extra something to make a big splash. That requires a kind of flair and fabulosity that few fish or folks possess—yet that my amazing friend Amy has by the bucketload. That why (as you might have guessed by now), she is the recipient of cake number forty-five.

Amy's name has been on my list just about since the inception of the "This Cake's for You!" project. She's been one of Carla's friends of the heart for a long time, and for a few gosh-darn-terrific years, I got to work with Amy. For the record, and in my humble opinion, and with due recognition of and respect for all the other stupendous folks with whom we worked, Amy was a driving force in the success of that company and her super (sometimes super-sticky) accounts while she was there, and I loved riding the wave with her for a while. Whether it came to knowing how to best follow through on anything-but-clear directions from a client or how to push back on the creative team to try some not-yet-considered approaches, Amy was invariably right and always intuitively savvy (as she is in her current position and with her current team, lucky dogs). In short, working with Amy was big fun—way big fun.

Big fun deserves yummy cake, as does Amy for many, many other reasons. She's had chickens as pets (eating neither the eggs nor the chickens themselves), for example, and she and her equally fabulous mother go together like jelly and peanut butter. Amy likes pink, and when she smiles, her beautiful eyes crinkle and sparkle the way the eyes of 1950s starlets crinkle and sparkle in those lovely movies about finding and keeping fame and fortune and love without having to try too hard. Her dog matches her living room. She's mom to a girl (who, by the way, named one of those chickens Carla, after, well, Carla) who's growing into a remarkable person of so many talents, one can hardly type fast enough to list them (softball star, academic sugarpop, basketball brillianteen, writer for whom J. K. Rowling better watch out, and sweet, sweet lovie) and wife to handsome Dan the Wonderman, who must be the kindest, most talented teacher and coach on the face of the earth map of Minnesota, given how much all of his students and their families (rightly) adore him and as every creature, human or otherwise, surely should, no questions asked. 

While Amy's been tee'ed up to get a cake for a while, all the stars came together at a terrific time; Amy's recently been quite sick with some flu-like mess, as has been her dear ol' dad, making even the best of times pretty cruddy. As luck would have it, I had decided on as vitamin-C-packed a cake as you can get: an orange cake with orange buttercream frosting. Why orange? While Amy may love chocolate (I think she may, but I'm not sure) and certainly can compete with chocolate in terms of depth and subtlety, she's bright like sunshine-filled fruit, in my estimation, and since she doesn't eat berries (at least not strawberries), orange seemed a good bet. And this was an easy cake to make, too, involving all sorts of big fun, like zesting and squeezing, egg-whites whipping and batter folding, baking and rising and unpanning and juicing and buttercreaming.

As another stroke of luck would have it, Carla was meeting Amy for lunch this past week, and so she helped me pull off the delivery—another moment of big fun with Amy. Not long after lunchtime, Carla texted a photo of shining-eyed Amy smiling her Academy-Award-winning smile and holding up her boxed cake. She looked so happy, she who deserves all the happiness in the world. The only detail that made me more happy than that picture was news from Amy herself that her mom snuck into the house the next day to pilfer a piece of the cake, which Amy had hidden in the hall closet so Dan and daughter Maddie wouldn't eat it all in one sitting. Ha!

A few lessons from cake #45:

Sometimes a recipe prophet instructs you to drop a whole orange into a pot of boiling water, and you're not sure if you should, since it seems almost too cruel a thing to do to an orange, but since you're planning on grating and slicing and squeezing to bits the little dearie anyway, and you know that Hermione would never hesitate to drop whatever was necessary into a pot of boiling potion, you do it. Whether or not this makes the orange easier to grate, you are also unsure, even after the plunge.

Neither flu nor other troubles can dim the light of certain shining friends; even though their light is incorruptible, they may feel less bright from time to time, so give them cake to let them know that nothing can tarnish them—nothing at all.

For the past month or so here in sunny southwest Minneapolis, there's been much sanding and priming, painting and polishing, as well as the assorted cleaning out of closets, straightening ups, unstopping of gutters, and fluffing of pillows and mattress toppers. While this may seem to be routine spring cleaning, it is anything but (except for the gutters business, which certainly was spring cleaning, albeit a few months late and to which we capitulated only after a flood or two in the basement and subsequent realization that the gutters had runneth over). No, this little corner of the neighborhood is preparing for the arrival of a hugely anticipated and special guest, one for whom there will be fanfare and hugs and meows from the kittens, as well as cake. The guest is Carla and my lovely niece Bernadette, traveling north for the first time from the far off land of Florida, and the cake is none other than cake number forty-four.

Bernadette is like the first strawberry of the season: shining and darling, gleaming and sweet, longed for and cheered for upon arrival. At a whopping early twenty-something, she is our oldest niece and I've known her nearly her entire life. She should get cake just for that—but of course she's amazing in a hundred other ways. She's an artist, for example, and she draws and paints and carves things and snips intricate other things out of paper. She was born in Japan. She is unfailingly polite. She cooks bowls full of noodles in broth, with greens and eggs and other delectables. She taught herself to knit and crochet, and she makes pieces of jewelry, which, if you say things like "Oooooh" or "How nice" about them, she might very well give you. She has great hair. She has designed and stitched her own kimono. She loves her parents and sister so much that it seeps out of her and turns into love for other people, too. She wears black. And grey. And sometimes olive green. But not pink. She likes red bean paste. And while she's pretty dramatically allergic to cats, she adores them anyway.

Bernie is coming to stay with Carla and me for a whole month. Since we've never had a child other than cats, this will be exciting, to say the least. We will take her to the park. We will buy her a balloon and an ice cream cone. We will bring breadcrumbs to feed the ducks, and we will hold on to the back of her shirt so she doesn't fall into the lake when she tosses the crumbs to the ducklings bobbing on the water, just out of reach. We may even push her on the swing. But before all of that, we will give her a cake to welcome her home.

Because Bernie loves manga, her cake had to be manga worthy: bright, cheery, and a little confusing. So I decided on an oddball variation of the traditional jam cake (a dense, buttermilk, Minnesota frontier-style spice cake usually made with blackberry jam and topped with caramel frosting). For Bernie, it would be a strawberry lemonade cake with lemon buttercream frosting—with only a teeny tiny hint of warm baking spices. Weird, I know; but I'm hoping for the best.

I made the strawberry-lemonade jam using this recipe, and oh my gosh, didn't it turn out to taste just like strawberry lemonade! So fun! So surprising! So blazingly pink (which I'm assuming is okay, since Bernie will eat it rather than wear it)! And this was what I substituted for blackberry in the jam-cake recipe found in one of my favorite cake-bakery books. Since I wasn't sure if strawberry lemonade would blend at all well with cloves, allspice, cinnamon, and nutmeg, I tossed in a mere pinch of each spice with the flour, baking soda, and salt, mixed that with the creamed butter and sugar—along with the buttermilk—then stirred in the manga-pink jam until the whole bowl of batter was rosy and ready for the cake pan and oven.

And this little cake didn't want to come out of the oven. For some reason, it wasn't done by the time predicted by the recipe prophet, nor by ten minutes later, nor by ten minutes after that, even. In fact, I think I doubled the bake time, but apparently with no harm done (at least none that I know of yet). The cake rose and turned out beautifully—a perfect shape for some lemony frosting and an overnight stay in the cake keeper.

As of this writing, darling Bernie has not yet arrived, so there's no delivery of which to report. But Carla and I are getting ready with our fanfares and hugs, and the cats are practicing their meows, for Bernie's immanent arrival. And won't it be so nice to see her.

A few lessons from cake #44:

If you know that she's coming, then bake a cake—and sing along with Ernie and Cookie Monster.

Life sometime gives you long-for and cheered-for-upon-arrival gifts, for which it is most likely worth it to take a risk and add a little spice, even if you're not sure it will all work out.

Was the genius poet Emily Dickinson inspired by summer's first flash of goldfinch wing when she wrote, 

Hope is the thing with feathers —

That perches in the soul —

And sings the tune without the words —

And never stops — at all —

Maybe so; maybe not. But if Emily is right about hope (and surely she is), hope is fluttering—and chirping, and visiting bird feeders, and causing yahoos and hoorahs—both lakeside and lawnside here sunny southwest Minneapolis. But in all honesty, even if the finches were few and far between this early summer, there'd be whistling, hopping about, takeoffs, swoops, and other expressions of hope in neighborhoods and hearts, all because of a wonderful, thoroughly inspiring, and without-a-doubt intoxicating friend named Jill. And that's why Jill is recipient of cake number forty-three, the first of the last ten cakes of the "This Cake's for You!" project.

In case that doesn't give you a robust enough understanding of Jill's awesomeness and cake deservedness, let me just say this. Jill's eyes light up like birthday candles when she laughs. She's an accountant (nuff said). She was an indispensable part of my friend Glory's run for the MN House of Representatives, devoting tons of hours and number crunches and good cheer to the cause. She's a twin. She loves with all her heart her beautiful beloved Denise, and she has a dog named Freckles. Plus—and this is the biggest, most important-and-full-of-sheer-and-unadulterated-admiration plus possible—she's just undergone major and dramatic surgery, all in order to cement hope that she'll be around for many, many decades to come, to love, and joyously live, and light up the lives of those who can't even imagine a world without her. Who needs finches when a single person can show such grand bravery? Who needs cake, really? No one; but as a humble expression of my warm esteem, I wanted to give dear Jill a little sweetness while she recovers and becomes stronger than ever.

Because of, well, the seriousness of Jill's surgery, I didn't want to risk the chance of baking her anything less than a tried-and-true favorite, so at a recent get-together, I came flat out and asked Jill what cake she liked the best. Without much hesitation, she said, "Carrot cake. With cream-cheese frosting." And then, after a slight pause, she followed up with, "Especially with cream cheese frosting." So be it; whatever Jill wants, Jill should get. Especially now. And especially cream-cheese frosting.

Using this recipe, which makes a cake so tasty that it has made an appearance on tripadvisor.com, I was soon at it, and the grated carrot shards flew, and the batter splattered, and the nuts got choppedy chopped, and two pans of sticky loveliness slid into a toasty warm oven, ready to rise to glory. It was only after the cake smelled quite done and yet there were twenty minutes left on the clock that I noticed that the rising was rather unglorious and the oven too toasty. With an "Eek!" and a test for doneness, I slid those babies out and set them to cool, hoping that humming a sacred, wordless hum might cause the cakes to rise as an afterthought. While the hums were in vain (although full of hope), the cakes seemed eager to be frosted, and so I complied, filling in those big dips with extra dollops of I-must-admit-it-gosh-darn-good frosting, the kind Jill hoped for. The kind she undisputedly deserves in glorious abundance.

While I would have been happy to have done a drop-off-and-run delivery, Denise the divine beloved said that Jill was up for visitors, and so Carla and I packed the cake and ourselves into the Mini and sped across town to Jill, recumbent on the couch, flanked by Freckles, and looking astoundingly gorgeous. What a picture of beauty. What an embodiment of courage and will. What a tangible instance of hope. What soul-singing light. Hoorah.

A few lessons from cake #43:

Despite the rumors and common understanding, carrots are not only as-you-might-expect orange. They are red! They are yellow! They are neon glowish! They are as healthy a sort of thing that one might put in a cake one bakes for a brave friend who's risked a bit to gain a whole lot as one can get, so grate them up!

Sometime grating carrots means grating fingers. This is a warning.

It's been raining buckets here in (sometimes sunny) southwest Minneapolis. And despite the water in the basement (argh and double argh), it's hard to complain about spring downpours showers when the parks and yards and boulevard lawns are so greeny-green and bright with azaleas, lilacs, tulips, spirea, and other bursting buds and blooms after the longest winter ever and a spring that had seemed to stall. That alone would be reason to bake a cake, but I have another. Her name is Kate, and glorious Kate is recipient of this week's "This Cake's for You!" cake.

Even though I don't know Kate well—on one Sunday morning, another friend, brilliant Barbara, brought Kate to a meditation class that I lead, and while Kate's been a regular since, I've been a silly goose and have not yet made plans to see her outside of the studio—I knew from the moment that she said hello and I said hello that she was stupendous. How much so? She's stupendous like the first lilacs to open and unleash their fragrance in May, or like a shady yard full of the first violets of spring, or like an azalea whose orange-pink-red-fuchsia flowers are so incredible that you can't really tell what color they are. Yup; she's incredible-flower stupendous. And besides her resemblance to blossoms that take your breath away, and in addition to the fact that she was born in May and so is a May flower without exaggeration, she's an incredible friend-daughter-sister-aunt (the sort who travels to where her niece is running a long and hard race and cheers and cheers and cheers that fleet-of-foot neice on because she loves her that much); she's lived almost everywhere (like in Austin, Texas, y'all, and the Pacific Northwest, and maybe San Francisco); she works in public service, advocating (you guessed it) for children; she knows of places like this wacky attraction and goes to them sometimes; she's a power meditator; and best of all, she has a voice like chocolate: smooth and silky, alluring and assuring, gentle and gentile. It's the kind of voice that the brainiacs at NASA should make sure to pipe into outer space to assure all the other beings that populate this universe (and all the other universes out there) that we humans are fundamentally trustworthy and kind and honest and caring and full of integrity. Because when it comes down to it, that's true, at least in humans like my friend Kate.

What kind of cake did I make for Kate? Awhile back I casually asked Kate, whom I had instinctively identified as a cake maniac lover, whether she was a chocolate-cake kind of gal or a fruity-cake kind of gal. To my delight, she said she was both, so when it came time to make Kate's cake, I thought long and hard about how I could bring the two together. Then I saw a picture of a dark chocolate cake with blackberry buttercream frosting and I knew what to do. I stocked up on cocoa; grabbed a bowl; scooped and leveled and poured and sprinkled the dry ingredients all together; dumped in the wet ingredients one after another; whirled the whole shebang for a few minutes; and then poured in the secret ingredient (hint: boiling water). While I had some reservations about the wisdom of pouring such a thin batter into a springform pan, nothing leaked in the oven. The only thing that went on in there was the baking of the darkest, glossiest, and most delicious-smelling chocolate cake ever to be baked in my kitchen these here parts.

Of course, the most fun came with the mixing of the buttercream, which turned the loveliest shade of purple-blue-pink right before my very eyes once I added the blackberry preserves (whose seed situation Carla had urged me to investigate the night before, an activity that resulted in late-night preserve warming and sieving and overnight cooling), and that carried the flavor of those dark berries sublimely. And then the most most fun was the topping of the cake with candied violets (another of Carla's promptings; she's so smart) made by my magical friend Margie (recipient of cake #36, "And the Beat Goes On" cake), who had harvested the violets from her very own sunny southwest Minneapolis backyard. What a sweet and glorious cake it turned out to be. Not as incredible-flower stupendous as Kate, but close.

Once boxed up and looking forward to its intended, the cake came with me and Carla to Sunday morning meditation, and although Kate was the next to arrive, I saved the surprise until we were saying goodbye. And then there were jumps and blushes and smiles and "oh my's" over the violets and many thanks, along with additional assurances from Kate, uttered in her extraterrestrial-soothing voice, that she "really, really, loves cake." I'm so glad, because no one deserves one more than she.

A few lessons from cake #42:

Blackberries have lots of seeds. Lots. If you think that you don't have to bother to check your preserve's seed situation, then warm the preserves and sieve it and cool it before adding some to your buttercream, you'd be wrong.

When you have a friend who has the power to calm an alien species while representing humans in their best light but you don't know her all that well, don't hold back from giving her something nice. If it's cake, all the better. And if you can top that something nice with a flower, do it.

Every once in a while here in sunny southwest Minneapolis—and I imagine in nearly all the places that make up the grand universe, planets, meteors, and all—you come across a person about whom you think, "Haven't we known one another in a past life? Haven't we climbed hills together and sailed a few seas together and picked apples together and tended babies together and fought battles together and laughed and mourned and gazed at the stars together? Haven't we?" and that person smiles and nods and says, "Why not?" while throwing up her hands. And when this happens, you thank your lucky stars that your paths have crossed again. If you're really blessed on the day on which you run into such a person, you'll be face to lovely face with my friend Jill, recipient of cake number forty-one, the first of the last dozen of the "This Cake's for You!" cakes.

Jill is a wonderful friend and a new (in this lifetime) friend—but she's already a tested friend, since not very long ago she travelled to India with Carla and me (and another few magical friends) after having met us only once or twice. While that may sound like a recipe for trouble, we are great friends precisely because of our adventures, and the fact that Jill is such an amazing travel partner is one enormous reason (made up of other littler reasons) that she deserve very much (gluten-free) cake. Those littler reasons include, but are not restricted to, these: Jill loves to visit spiritually interesting places like temples and holy rivers and rickshaws whose minidashboards have their own altars; when Carla developed Delhi belly and I wasn't near and the temperature topped 105 degrees Fahrenheit so that even breathing caused sweating, Jill didn't leave Carla for a second; despite her asthma, Jill adventured with us around Old and New Delhi, sporting a chic face mask like the trooper that she is, and perpetually volunteering to be the one to disinfect bathrooms when one of us needed a pitstop; Jill rocks the salwar kameez; and best of all, she knows how to take care of herself when everything is so much more different than you think it can ever be, all the while deeply respecting everyone else's need to do the same.

Why else should anyone in her right mind offer Jill cake? She's an astrologer, for goodness sake, so she can quickly and easily know a whole lot more about you than you (or at least most of us) can know at all about her. Plus, she happily marries people (that is, she officiates at marriages, offering words of beauty and blessings, grace and gladness). Jill also adores cats—in particular, her cats, Mr. Black and Kali (aka, Squeaky), but all cats, really—and eschews green peppers. And then she hums often, while laughing much more often than that. Taken together, this means that when she becomes your friend, it is as if the universe has gently placed into your upturned palm a velvet box in which is nestled a rare gem—a star sapphire, perhaps—that you can never truly deserve and you know this, which is why you feel like you're bursting just a little with too much gratitude. Anyone who doesn't feel this way about Jill is, well, a ding-dong.

Clearly, I had to offer up a tiny token of thanks in the form of a cake, and a few things informed my decision to make Jill the cake I made: a mango cardamom cheesecake with gingersnap crust. Firstly, Jill eschews green peppers, so they were out. Secondly, she avoids gluten, so cakey cake was out. Thirdly, only mango and cardamom would capture all the fun that Carla and I had in India with her. Fourthly, Carla found some tasty gluten-free gingersnap cookies that were so good that by hook or by crook, they had to be part of the cake. Fifthly—and I admit this out of respect for full disclosure and at the risk that all of you may decide that I am much less inventive than I might initially appear, if I ever appear that way—Jill had said how much she'd like to get a mango cheesecake some day. And so she did.

The cake ended up coming together with some inspiration from this recipe and some made-up maneuvers on my part, including the addition of the cardamom, the substitution of the gluten-free gingersnap cookies for biscotti, the actual making of the mango puree, and the general avoidance of the food processor, which is awesome for chopping up hard things into small bits but whose use just seems silly when what one must do is whip up what can be whipped with a trusty Hamilton-Beach hand mixer. What resulted smelled like heaven and looked like the golden-orange moon that rose over India during the three weeks that we were there, so it pretty much fit the Jill bill.

As I've confessed noted, Jill had dropped the hint that she'd love a mango cheesecake, and sure enough, the cake's delivery proved that she was entirely correct in her prediction. At this charming coffee shop, Carla and I met Jill (who happened to look fabulous wearing one of the Indian kurta that she had bought on our trip) and handed over the cake box, nearly precipitating what Jill would later call an "ugly cry" (something which, if you knew beautiful Jill, you would understand is not possible, although a lovely cry might very well be). After chatting and reminiscing and missing India together, we three hugged our goodbyes and Jill headed off to her corner of sunny southwest Minneapolis where, if the cake tastes anywhere near as grand as is my fondness for her, she'll know how grateful both Carla and I are to know her in this star-gazing lifetime of ours.

A few lessons from cake number forty-one:

When the crust of a cheescake calls for almost a cup of melted butter and you can't use biscotti crumbs because most biscotti have gluten while some tasty gingersnaps don't and you choose to use those gingersnaps for the cake's crust, you might not be able to remove the cake from the bottom of your springform pan, even though you remembered to (a) grease the pan and (b) line the pan with greased waxed paper and even though you braved inverting the pan on a Saran-lined plate in order to try to pry off that stuck-on pan bottom; if this happens to you, you're in luck! It gives you an excuse to make a cake-pan-bottom-retrieval date with the friend to whom you'll give that cheesecake.

Friends are jewels, even if they don't come in actual velvet-lined boxes, so it's entirely called for to ooh and ahh over them whenever you get the opportunity and to feel big with thankfulness because of them.

Whether it's a matter of coincidental circumstance or simply the way life unfolds for each of us, many of my friends are suddenly (or so it seems) facing the challenge of helping their parents age—in comfort, with grace, and freed from worry by the liberating love of devoted hearts. That path is not an easy one, and the way is sometimes dark. But there's help and hope because of certain people, people like my rock-steady, wise-well-beyond-her years friend Roxanne, the recipient of cake number forty.

Roxanne is among those shining beacons who've dedicated themselves to advocating and educating and assisting and leading and speaking on behalf of others—of folks like our moms and dads, our friends and mates, our neighbors and admired ones, and frankly, of us, too, at some sacred time in the future—whose voices, perhaps weakened by age, are too often ignored. (See, for instance, this conference that's coming up—maybe you'd like to go.) That is, she advocates and agitates for old folks. In my book, that's worthy of so, so much, including but not limited to cheering and hoots and hollers of unflinching admiration and extreme gratitude, as well as cake, cake, cake.

And of course she's stellar for more than just her professional work. She is among the steadiest and most regal—as in splendid and august—people I know. She's like a lighthouse on a rocky shore, towering and shining, grounded and guiding. She's like a vein of gold, forged from effort and hard work and determination and perseverance, gleaming and promising incalculable value to those who find her. She's the salt of the earth, She's tried and true. She's as good as gold. In fact, she's gooder. Way gooder.

Because Roxanne is extraordinarily unpretentious (magnificent as she is), I wanted to make her a a homey, old-timey, dependably delicious cake, but it couldn't be ordinary—while Roxanne is steady like a rock, she's also fiery and feisty, like fireworks. Or comets. Or solar flares. (You think I jest, but I don't; no kidding.) One recipe I've been eyeing for some time struck me as the sublime choice for Roxanne: a cream-cheese Bundt cake (so fundamentally fulfilling; so right-from-grandma's-kitchen comforting) and flavored with lemon peel and grated ginger (so surprising lively; so snappy and zippy). While all this alone seemed a lovely tribute to and terrific match for Roxanne, I thought that it wouldn't be quite magnificent enough. So I planned for a drizzle of homemade caramel and a sprinkle of salt to make for a perfect finish.

While I hoped that the cake would be a big hit, I didn't think that it would be big. I suppose the three cups of flour, pound of butter, and six eggs should have clued me in, but they didn't, really. I suppose the twelve-cup Bundt pan the recipe called for should have given it away, but it didn't. I suppose the fact that this cake almost did my reliable Hamilton Beach hand mixer in should have been a dead giveaway, but it wasn't. It wasn't until the darling cake had been baking for about forty minutes that I checked on it and saw that it had grown about four inches higher than the Bundt pan it was snuggled in (a Bundt pan that, obviously, wasn't a twelve cupper, despite my assumption). Lucky for me, and by some grace-filled move of providence, the batter hadn't spilled over the sides of the pan or poured into the middle tube, but had rather simply risen up, up, up, like some regal Roxanne monarch rising from her throne. How this happened, I'm still too flummoxed to say. But my luck didn't stop there; because I had—for some additional providential reason—greased and floured the cake pan all the way to the tippy top, the cake didn't rip or tear or stick or throw a tantrum when coming out. It simply slid out with imposing authority, towering like a golden mountain of lusciousness. Only a drizzle of caramel and sprinkling of pink Himalayan salt could make it prettier than it already was. And so they did.

Since Carla and I were meeting Roxanne, along with her shines-like-a-star-in-the-velvet-night-sky love, Jen, to whom Roxanne is as devoted as any human could possibly be, for brunch at this neighborhood favorite, I got to do an in-person delivery, which is just about the happiest task with which a gal can be tasked. As I passed the box over piles of toast and plates of omelets and bowls of oatmeal, Roxanne beamed and I beamed right back and Carla and Jen hooray'd and hoorah'd and we all knew that this life—here and now—is sweet and golden and all the better because of friends. 

A few lessons from cake #40:

When the batter you've mixed nearly fills your Bundt pan, and you remember the advice of nearly every recipe prophet to never fill your pan more than, say, two-thirds of the way full, and you think that somehow this is a very special recipe for which that advice simply can't apply, you'd be wrong.

Remember that we'll all find ourselves needing care and love and protection at a time when we might not be able to ask for it; for those who will be there to listen, despite our inability to speak, let's be thankful now.

Early morning cake-bakery, when the mixing and measuring happens before the sun has risen in sunny southwest Minneapolis, and the cats have just finished their breakfasts, and the house is quiet while the coffee perks and splutters away, is among the best of times, for then, while all is hush and flush with not-quite darkness and not-quite light, it is easy to imagine the beautiful person whose cake is in the baking, the one whose smile is contagious and healing even as a mere impression in the mind. Saturday morning was that time for me and that shimmering smile belonged to Shannon, brightener and beautifier of all that her smile lands upon and recipient of cake number thirty-nine.

I've been looking forward to gifting a cake to Shannon for quite a while. Shannon is one of those people who, if you haven't known her for half your life and shared things like birthdays and confidences and loony but also absolutely true compliments and pressed flowers and walks in the park with, say, an adorable Springer Spaniel or two only to then head inside for tea with a cat on your lap and another on hers, you certainly wish you had and you might even be just a bit jealous of those luckier than you. So obviously, she should have cake. But there are other reasons. I've come to know Shannon in hatha yoga classes taught by unsparingly lovely Ali, where I usually unroll my mat behind Shannon's, flop down, and rather ungracefully do my best, something which, if left to me alone, often involves not-so-serene grumbles and I-can'ts and I-will-nevers but which becomes sincere when inspired by Shannon's elegant, careful, measured, and purposeful approach to her yoga practice. The deliberate way she places a hand or raises an arm or shifts to balance on feet or hands is the very embodiment of self-respect and self-support. Just try not to be inspired and impressed by that. And she brings that care and beams her inspiration to every person on every mat even more when she teaches, almost magically buoying up even the most trenchant self-doubters in the room. When Shannon teaches, we all believe we can fly—or if not fly, then that we are worthy of loving ourselves dearly.

And then there's the fact that she's a concert pianist, which should all by itself mean she gets cake, since she fills audience member's ears and hearts with joy and longing, and does things like this (hit the "play" button, sillies!) with fellow joy spreaders. Also, she wears fuchsia, thinks (rightly) that dogs are beings with souls, shares her life with a charming fellow named Billy, and not all that long ago suffered a loss that shadowed her bright face with a grief that no amount of cake could possibly assuage, but that perhaps now some time later aches a bit less and can be made, if even for only a moment, lighter with forkfuls of cake.

While Shannon's name has long been on my "This Cake's for You!" recipient list, I knew the time was ripe to pull her name to the top when I came across this recipe for candied lemon cake. The color trilled "Shannon!"; the rings of candied lemons sang out "Shannon!"; the simple sophistication cadenza'ed into "Shannon!"; and so this one would be a must-bake for Shannon. Begun in those early morning hours with the grating of the zest, the cake came into its own as a fragrant, golden, smiley sunshine of sweetness while thinly sliced lemons simmered in sugar water. Once liberated from its pan (the darling thing thoughtfully slid out with ease), painted with lemon-sugar syrup, and crowned with circlets of the brightest, tartest yellowness ever, it was ready for delivery.

And just in time. Swapping out PJs for stretchy pants, I boxed up the cake and rushed it to this gem of a yoga studio where Shannon teaches, buoys, handstands, inspires, and encourages in her own fine form on Saturday mornings. What fun it was to give her this cake, to see happiness dance in her eyes and bounce around the room. When she asked how I knew that lemon was her favorite, I told her that I hadn't known; that I had only had a hunch. What I didn't tell her (foolish me) was that if a standing ovation were a cake, it would be this one, and my ovation would be for her, and that for the delight she's made possible for me and for those who admire her, she deserves so much more. Brava, Shannon!

A few lessons from cake #39:

Sometimes you have a person in mind and look and look for the perfect thing for that person, and at other times, a perfect thing jumps out of the blue, singing to you and telling you that you simply must give it to a particular, beautiful, smiling Shannon someone; when the latter happens, heed the call.

While in the depths of your heart you might know that sweet and tart belong together like, say, a Shannon and a Billy, you might nevertheless hesitate decorating a cake with slices of actual lemons, even after having simmered them in sugar water, in which case you must muster your courage and follow your heart, for in this instance, as in most cases, it will be right.

Things sure do move quickly here in sunny southwest Minneapolis; you just get caught up on a new "This Cake's for You!" post and—bam—here comes another one. Well, as the old adage goes, if there's a party, you better get dancing. (Okay, so I just made that up; but it certainly has the spirit of an old adage.) And there's definitely a party goin' on. I don't mean "party" in terms of an actual gathering of celebratory guests who toot on darling little horns and toss handfuls of confetti. I mean "party" in terms of my amazing friend Holly, the latest recipient of a "This Cake's for You!" cake.

Holly is like a party in the guise of a person. She's like a jig or a reel or a foxtrot in the guise of a person. She's busting with happiness and good wishes and zest and exuberance and zeal—for life itself and all that she can get out of it and give to other people. Wow, she's terrific. Bake that gal a cake.

I was the luckiest to have had the chance to work with Holly for a sweet while, and with her, work and working was like splashing around in a bowl full of Lucky Charms: delicious, fun, and bonkers in the very best sense. And all the while, she was—and IS—thoughtful and uncannily observant, kind and sensitive, loyal and generous, diligent like no other and prone to break out in dance at a moment's notice, resourceful and respectful, smarty-smart and smiley, and full of strategies and ideas and efforts to make the best things happen in the best of all ways. She also says things like "golly," "gee whiz," and "heavens to Betsy" with such adorableness that you find yourself saying just those quaint phrases yourself not long after, even against your better judgement. And then there's the fact that she's probably the best mom in all of Wisconsin, Minnesota, the Midwest, the far-flung eastern, western, and southern states, plus Jupiter and Mars—combined. She's such a good mom, and good spouse to loyal and dashing Jeff, that her daughters will forever think that no one smiles as brightly as Holly, no one loves as devotedly as Holly, and no one moms as mothertastically as Holly. This they will always know.

When thinking of the perfect cake for Holly, I simply asked myself, "If Holly were a cake in disguise, which cake would she be?" Of course the answer was obvious: a confetti cake—a cake even more aptly dubbed the "funfetti" cake by a certain local cake-mix purveyor of world renown. It goes without saying that I wanted to make mine from scratch (silly cake mixes!) and found a yummy-seeming recipe from this recipe prophet. Given all the accolades from her friends and family, it seemed like an automatic winner.

After a brief scare at the grocery when I saw on the shelf only red-white-&-blue sprinkles and NO rainbow sprinkles and was only set back on course when an extremely helpful professional grocery magician who didn't mind knocking over all the little vials of red-white-&-blue sprinkles retrieved the two remaining rainbow-sprinkles vials that were tucked way in the back, the cake sprang to life easily, colorfully—not much is funner that stirring sprinkles into cake batter, believe me—and with much admiration from my two kitchen cats, Nigel and Fleur (who don't admire cake as much as they hound whomsoever is in the kitchen to dole out their dinner, even if it's three hours premature). Because Holly doesn't like food that's weirdly put together or strangely squishy or otherwise weird and/or strange, I decided on simple vanilla frosting. And since she is as delightful as a party hat, I decided to mound it all atop the cake in one great big plopping swirl—sprinkled with nonpareils, of course.

While I didn't get in on the delivery in person, Carla did, and she sent me a photo of lovely and beaming Holly with her funfetti cake. In response, I celebrated by taking a spin or two around the room to the groove of this little ditty. How Deee-lite-ful.

A few lessons from cake #38:

Every once in a while you come across a person about whom you think, "Why, you are just about the most honest-to-goodness pure essence of happiness that I've ever met in a person. Are you for real?" and then she smiles and spreads her happiness and you suddenly become certain that the real world is awfully nice.

Red-white-&-blue sprinkles are no substitutes for rainbow sprinkles and may cause you to stop in your tracks and begin to recite the "Pledge of Allegiance" out loud in the middle of the grocery aisle. There's not much to do about it but wrap up your recitation with a patriotic flourish and reach for the rainbows.

Like any neighborhood worth its square miles in salt (and butter, eggs, flour, and sugar), sunny southwest Minneapolis has it's abundance of kitties: chubby ones, fluffy ones (I'm talking about you, Purree!), sleek and slender ones, friendly and standoffish ones—we've got them all. And while each is different in her own way, they all have reason to wash their whiskers, get gussied up, and prance about with glee when a certain someone is in the hood. That would be Dr. Lisa, mobile cat doctor extraordinaire and defender of feline well-being throughout the known universe for whom every pussycat just about goes gaga—as well they should. Since cats are notoriously fickle, Dr. Lisa should, it's needless to say, get cake for that.

I knew that Dr. Lisa had beyond-the-norm feline intention detection and well-being devotion from the get go. Carla and I had her over to help us solve what seemed to be a problem with our little boy Siamese cat, Nigel (aka Nigel Dapper Longstockings—or Mr. Handsome for short). Nigel, a rescue kitty from way down yonder in Blue Earth County, had been a nervous guy from the moment we met him, and not long after we fetched him home, he developed a bad urinary issue that required medical intervention and a stay at the UMN vet hospital. While the astoundingly talented and fancy vets there helped Nigel get better, he lapsed into bad peeing behavior some time later. Since we weren't sure if the cause was physical or behavioral, we thought it best to call in the big cheese, Dr. Lisa, to get an in-home assessment.

She wasn't in the house two minutes before she zeroed in on a big part of the problem: Fleur Simone, our big girl Siamese whom we thought wanted a companion kitty when our beloved Gabriel died but about whose desires we were very, very wrong. Giving Fleur the "I've got my eye on you, pussycat" stare, Dr. Lisa helped us set things up so Nigel would be less under the sargeantial command of bully Fleur, whom Dr. Lisa quickly and most cleverly dubbed Fleurocious. And Dr. Lisa also prescribed stuff and tested stuff and reported stuff and did doctorly things that made Nigel improve splendidly.

So for all of that, Dr. Lisa deserves cake. Also, she spent quality time on the East Coast, thinking hard about important matters, which as a New Englander it is my duty to recognize and honor. Plus, she is funny and intuitive, entrepreneurial and go-getterly, honest and smart beyond measure, a lover of pie as well as cake, and admires cats so much that she not only doctors them, but has kitty kids of her own and fosters other kittens so they'll grow up to be grand and well-behaved cats (see for yourself). Get that doctor some cake this instance.

For Dr. Lisa, I wanted a cake that would remind her of her four-pawed patients and be straight-up, honest-to-goodness great like she is. So I picked a traditional devil's food cake, with it-can't-get-better-than-this vanilla frosting. According to the recipe prophet, the directions I followed were for a lighter-chocolate-colored cake (sans that wacky red food coloring) than are some more recent versions, and since Dr. Lisa is about as authentic as one can get, I figured it would suit her well. And I'm guessing that she might refer to some of her kitty patients as little devils, although I'm sure she does that with a wink and a twinkle in her eye.

The cake came together wonderfully; interestingly, the recipe had me "fold" stiffly beaten egg whites into an incredibly thick and dense chocolate batter. Like superthick. I'd say that the elbow grease required to do this disqualified the action from being "folding" and classified it more as "wrestling." How this would help lighten the cake, I wasn't (and am not) sure, but this little sweetie rose beautifully in the oven, so the recipe prophet wins on this one.

And as for the cake's delivery—it was in-house and fun, fun, fun. Dr. Lisa was over on a follow-up visit to see if Nigel and Fleurocious's humans were obeying adopting her orders suggestions, when she asked how the "This Cake's for You!" project was going (we had chatted about it during an earlier visit). I was able to reply, "So funny that you should ask, Dr. Lisa, because THIS CAKE'S FOR YOU!" While I certainly heard her say, "Aw, thanks; I've always wanted cake," I could have sworn I heard her sing a few bars of this song to Nigel and Fleur, too. Awesome. 

A few lessons from cake #37:

Sometimes people you know give up wealth and permanence and other alluring aspects of this materialistic life to do good things for other creatures, like come to their houses to test their urine PH and scratch them under their chins and give them hilarious nicknames that couldn't be more perfect; when you know such a person and she does such things, give her something that will make her happy.

If you ever get to be a recipe prophet, consider using more appropriate words like "wrestle" and "wrangle" and "plop" to describe the actions necessary to complete your recipe accurately so your readers will not think that they are doing things all wrong.

A wonderful, musical, mystical poet once wrote rapturously of spring:

What is all this juice and all this joy?

A strain of the earth's sweet being in the beginning

Although writing of a budding and greening and faraway land, the poet may well have asked something like this of the spring now settling on sunny southwest Minneapolis. But perhaps the unmistakable joy and juiciness of life so evident in our little neighborhood isn't due so much to this long-coming, longed-for season, but rather to the fact that a brilliant source of joy lives right here in our midst. If you know her, I'm sure you've guessed that I must mean Margie, a darling friend whom all friends love. She was the one for whom I baked this week's cake, so much like spring is she—a force of sweet being that, with what the poet calls "a rush of richness," moves us with a gentle hand toward life and more life, so that each moment is a new beginning.

Margie is a yoga pal of mine (we both practice with lovely Ali, who along with her family was the inspiration for the "This Cake's for You!" project) and although we often set up mats near one another and waved and smiled and namaste'd for quite some time, I first fell strongly within Margie's orbit during a difficult time for her—her glorious and incredibly talented doctor of a husband, Mark, was getting a new heart. As in transplant. Of another person's heart. To replace his failing one. Which shouldn't have been failing, hearty and healthy man that he was (and is to this day—yay!). And yet it was. And did. And he got one. With Margie like his heart beat: always there, always steady, always returning, always moving Mark and her family toward life and more life.

What could a yoga pal do in light of THAT kind of miracle but make Margie and Mark soup and cookies, and bring them flowers, and hold them in mind in early morning before-the-sun-came-up meditations? Not much, really. But Margie's strength, her explosions of love, her firm and warm hugs, the way she says, "Hey, doll!" and her unfailing, unflailing support of friends and family—plus, she is just so darn adorable—puts her at the top of the "Most Awesome Being Who Deserves Cake" list. No question—one must rush to make her cake, cake, cake.

Margie is an excellent cook and baker and a lover of fine things, including food, so her cake had to be a little out of the ordinary, truly yummy, a bit refined, and perhaps just a tad zany. I thought I'd risk disaster (since Margie is the kindest of kind hearts, and would surely forgive a cake blunder; in fact, I'm sure she'd overlook it completely and never say a word) and bake her a cake that seemed improbable: a banana and lemon sour cream cake. Banana and lemon? That, I reasoned, would either be eyebrow raising in a good way, or just awful. But why give in to doubt? I asked myself. And while the recipe prophet recommended a chocolate ganache for the big finish, I decided to stick with sunny, uplifting lemon and go with a lemon buttercream—not the fake confectioner's sugar-and-butter "buttercream," but the real Mccoy, with boiling sugar syrup, egg yolks, and butta, butta, butta.

That frosting was the most fun thing to make EVER. I've always shied away from making buttercream, thinking that it meant serving raw-ish egg yolks to unsuspecting cake eaters and putting one's life in danger with streaming and steaming-hot sugar syrup. While the latter proved true (although no injury ensued), the former didn't at all (the hot sugar "cooks" the egg yolks as all whizzes around the bowl and is whipped into a frenzy). And while I doubted I'd get anything frostinglike out of the process for much of the addition of butter, the last eight tablespoons or so turned it all into a golden and creamy dream worthy of a few precious drops of pure lemon oil. It was so yummy, in fact, that I scooped out a generous dollop and served it with a tiny spoon to a friend who had lingered after dinner.

Of course, given the wonderfulness of Mark's continued life with Margie and the simple fact of Margie's sweet being, the cake had to be a heart cake. And so it was. And who would have known that Margie not only loves cake, but is zany for frosting? Not me, not until I dropped off the cake to much clapping and jumping and hugging on a warming-into-spring Saturday afternoon. It was one of the best "This Cake's for You!" deliveries yet. Thanks, Margie, for that particular burst of juicy joy. Here's a little singalong in return.

A few lessons from cake #36:

What seems so improbable—like a banana-lemon cake, or needing a new heart, or getting a new heart, or being the source of being and beginning for a husband and family—can rush into life in the most miraculous way, and it can happen again and again and again.

Worry can stop you from doing delicious things, so don't let it.