So Much Depends Upon A Soap Cake

"My identity rests in the fact that I am my mother's daughter. " - Cristina Moreno/ Spanglish There are many reasons that I should endeavor to be like my mother. Her independence, her kindness and compassion, her ability to teach 20 random children each year and actually enjoy it, her precise sewing skills, her culinary skills- most notably, buttermilk biscuits passed down through the generations and now served at nearly every meal when we are home, her work ethic, her passive, peace-making attitude- all of these would be excellent reasons to emulate my mother. Yet above all that, her creative ingenuity is what frames the memories of my childhood and defines much of my life as an adult. One of my favorite memories is often referred to as the Soap Cake Saves the Day. For a History class in middle school, we were producing a play. In this play, one of the scenes called for a birthday cake. As we were having our final rehearsal in the sanctuary, the janitor, Mr. Joe, overheard me say that I would make the cake and bring it the next day. I can only assume that Mr. Joe promptly informed the church secretary, who immediately rushed into the sanctuary to put a stop to all the chicanery of a iced cake. She demanded that we cut the cake from the script because we were not allowed to have food in the sanctuary. The cake was uncuttable, it was central to the birthday party theme of the play. I spent the afternoon brainstorming and decided to use a box and paint it to look like a cake. When my mom picked me up that day, I told her about the secretary running in, eyes all crazy, wringing her hands and axing our cake. My mom said something about that being a tad exaggerated and then she said, "I think I can make a cake out of soap, so it looks like a real cake." I had no idea what she was talking about, but if my mom said it could be done, than it most likely could. That night, she mixed soap flakes with water and iced the outside of a plastic bowl. As the flakes dried, they hardened and looked just like icing. The next morning, I walked my cake proudly into the sanctuary. Mr. Joe nearly broke his leg running down the back aisle screaming something about "wretched children." I stood my ground and told him that I did not have food in the sanctuary and then knocked on the top of my cake. I could tell that he was debating whether to be impressed. He just shook his head and walked out. My teacher, Ms. Sloop, thought the cake was fabulous. The Soap Cake was passed around all day, shown off and admired, and performed very well in the birthday scene. My mom never saw nor heard all the accolades that the Soap Cake received that day. Later on, she would be introduced by Ms. Sloop as "the lady who made the Soap Cake, the cake that saved the play." My mom, the Soap Cake lady. My mom knew it was a stupid cake for a stupid middle school play that I would probably never remember, but to me it was everything. I was the stage manager, I was a control freak about my responsibilities. My mom never once said, "Evie, do you really think it will matter in 20 years if the cake looked real?" No, she sacrificed a Tupperware bowl and created the most wonderful soap cake ever made. This is the creative ingenuity that I admire so much. And one day, maybe my kids will need a fake cake so I can save the day.

My mother is a poem
I'll never be able to write,
though everything I write
is a poem to my mother.
~Sharon Doubiago