MY mother used to celebrate Valentine’s Day by making heart-shaped cupcakes of vanilla cake with pink boiled icing. They were beautiful and ethereal, vanilla-scented clouds of sugar, butter, and flour. They were pillows of cake, the sort of thing angels would eat if they had tea parties and buffets.
Fortunately, these extremely evanescent manifestations of my mother’s love were larger than normal cupcakes. This was good because my six siblings and I seemed to suffer from infantile metabolic disorders. Like wolves, we prowled the Siberian steppes of our existence looking for any uneaten remnant of the things we considered edible. Without any tutoring from the others or any sharing of trade secrets, we each perfected the art of removing crumbs from the exterior of a cooling cake without leaving a trace. We employed stealth and cunning in our daily search for adequate nourishment.
The good thing about cupcakes is that, even though there technically can never be enough of them, they usually do not create questions of fairness. They are all the same size. A single cake cut into pieces, on the other hand, can be outrageously unjust, with some pieces visibly larger and more filling than others. Cupcakes are conducive to world peace.
From a child’s perspective, fairness is important. To a child, it is sometimes inconceivable that a mother or father can love each of his children the same, that each piece of cake can be equal. A child ponders this puzzle. It is one of the first philosophical issues he wrestles with, wondering how a parent can love him like no other and also love his brother or sister like no other. The child is usually wrong in doubting the capacity of his parents to love all their children equally and exclusively, but he is right in his dawning knowledge of a painful truth. Human love is finite. Read More »