The first song I wrote was called “I Work in the Bakery.” I was five or six years old and I made it up because I thought I looked like a baker while getting out of the tub in my shower cap. My older sister transcribed it for me. It’s not particularly good, but I’ve never forgotten it:
“I work in the bakery/I make cakes and pies/I work every day inside/I make bear claws and wreaths and pancakes for a feast/and on your birthday/when you can have anything you like/be sure to come here”
As requested Kwame brought home a gluten-free chocolate cake for my birthday. It was the smallest size you could get from Mariposa Bakery, but we barely made a dent in it. That much leftover cake in a house with two people during a pandemic is dangerous, even if it is gluten-free and vegan.
The next day, I texted the neighbors on each side of our house, both with young children under 10, to see if they might like some. They were both enthusiastic, so I carefully put generous portions on paper plates and wrapped them in foil. Something about handing out slices completed the whole birthday ritual. Cake is meant to be shared!