When I stumbled upon an aging index card for Compromise Cake, my first thought was whether my mom had ever whipped it up. And if she had, did she ever savor a slice? The woman I remember was anything but flexible. By the time I came along as the fourth child, cake-baking was not her strong suit. After my parents’ divorce, she seemed to withdraw from everyone, relinquishing connections with friends, family, and even her own children.
Or perhaps they turned away from her. Those once-close friends and neighbors appeared to judge her harshly, viewing her struggles with mental illness and divorce as something to avoid, as if they were contagious. I often wondered if her anger and sorrow over her circumstances discouraged people from seeing her in a gentler light. The only diagnosis I ever overheard was “burned out schizophrenic,” a term my sister caught from some medical professional. No one communicated openly with us about her issues; we simply knew she had been labeled as “crazy,” with no solutions offered.
My classmates thought she was merely suffering from depression. Yet by junior high, she had transformed into a somewhat cool, if unpredictable, mom—the kind who welcomed children escaping harsher home environments. She didn’t condone underage drinking, but when we indulged in cannabis or psychedelics, it felt like we were on the same wavelength. She supported my artistic pursuits, never batting an eye as I drew on the TV screen with crayons during late-night teenage gatherings.
I was too naïve to discern who had abandoned whom first—my mother or the world. Eventually, the once lively young bride morphed into a woman often seen as volatile and detached, particularly when it came to baking. Most frequently, she made Devil’s Food cake with rich chocolate buttercream frosting, which sat untouched on the sideboard, stiffening over time. My sister’s strict diet of burgers and water left no room for cake, while my brother rejected our mother’s homemade treats, opting for store-bought confections instead. I spent the most time with her, grappling with her unhappiness while constantly tempted by the cake that lingered nearby. I avoided it, though; my siblings had labeled me with names like “Chubby” and “Thunder Thighs.” Photos from that time reveal I was only slightly above the ideal weight, hardly deserving such ridicule. Among my dance peers, I was practically slim.
Finding the recipe card for Compromise Cake prompted me to reflect on how the term once held a benign meaning in mid-twentieth-century America, yet today it carries a burdensome weight. Some view compromise as essential to life and societal organization, while others vehemently reject it.
Our current president has tirelessly sought compromise with his political adversaries. I even sent him the recipe, hoping it could aid in bridging divides during an upcoming meeting aimed at addressing the nation’s growing partisan rift, where the notion of “C” was off-limits. “Perhaps wait until they’ve had a slice or two before revealing its name,” I playfully suggested. No reply came, and the committee ultimately fell short of its objectives.
According to the name inscribed on the card, the recipe’s creator was someone named Clara Mendez. I’m unsure if she was from my mother’s hometown or a kind neighbor from another chapter in her life. Yet, if she was typical of her time, I suspect she intended nothing but the best when combining “compromise” with “cake.”
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In summary, the concept of compromise, once a simple notion, has evolved into a complex word in our society, reflecting the challenges we face in both personal and political realms.
Keyphrase: Compromise Cake and Motherhood
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