Have my cake, eat it too

A life lived in baked goods

Johan Alexander's written work has received support from Maine Writers & Publishers Alliance, Periplus Collective, StoryStudio Chicago, and Anaphora Arts Writing Residencies, and he was an inaugural Maine Lit Fest Fellow in 2022. His most recent stories appear in print in The Telling Room’s 20th Anniversary Anthology, and online in LatineLit and Eunoia Review, and are forthcoming in ON PAPER Literary Art Zine. Born in Medellín, Colombia, Johan Alexander currently lives in Portland, Maine. Word stuff at www.johanalexander.com.

This envelope, my door, early this morning. Staring through the kitchen window over the sink, I wondered who tacked it there, overnight. What did it mean? Who, what, why? I sighed; my breath appeared before my face. I opened the envelope. A couple of lined pages. I noted the handwritten script, cursive, old-fashioned? My stomach grumbled softly. Only a couple of pages…

Nana always made angel-food cake, usually for someone’s birthday.

Because the majority of my family’s birthdays are crunched into the months of January and February, growing up, Nana’s angel-food cakes were always accompanied by Maine’s winter snows.

Or, better, let’s try this.

Maine’s winter snows crunched and puffed, growing up, much like my Nana’s angel-food cakes, which always accompanied my family’s birthdays in the months of January and February.

Of course, no other cake, angel-food or otherwise, comes close to Nana’s.

The golden crust, flaking against a big round plate, sugar dust whispering against white sponge underneath, early-morning January sunrays brushing against freshly fallen snow near Nana’s house under Bear Hill.

Sometimes, in a perfect moment, the light is just at that angle, the powdered snow fluffs into a brisk wind, bits of gilded and burnt leaves and weather-withered foliage rustling, appearing, glistening, disappearing in clumps, the entirety of my backyard and the slopes beyond crackling and settling, burnt edges, looking like, you guessed it…

All this reminds me of Nana, and I immediately warm up from this memory full of love, and this warmth is much needed as I wait outside in the freezing cold, as my dog sniffs the same spot for the fiftieth time, nope, circling back, fifty-first time, before deciding, yes or no, to pee.

He decides no, moves to another spot, and starts to sniff again.

Sweet memories of warm sweets baked by sweet people always help me get through this weather.

My main Maine parcero (Colombian Spanish slang for bud, bro, best friend, stay with me, we’ll return to this), my main Maine parcero, J for Josh, has a widely known secret hidden talent.

He bakes great cakes.

One of the things you could truly be missing in life, one of the only things, frankly, is a great friend who can whip up a delicious cake, on a whim.

You don’t know you have it until you realize you miss it.

I remember just last week, a sugared slice of a mountain of sponge and meringue and berries was set in front of me, and as I raised my fork to my mouth, a fork piled with cake, I’m sure I said something benign yet also slightly asinine, as I am wont to do, something like “this looks good,” to which J replied with a smirk, “there are hardly any ingredients in this,” and we proceeded to stuff our faces.

Sometimes when I’m walking around my neighborhood in Portland, on a brisk fall day, I daydream of carrot cake, which I believe mixes comfortably with the aesthetics of Octobers in Maine, twining sweaters and scarves and crispy leaves and Everything Everywhere Pumpkin Spice, and if I am out walking in Portland, it’s usually toward a coffee shop which, unsurprisingly, serves a sweet slice, or two of, you guessed it…

Nobody has ever asked me this, but if I were ever to be asked, “what kind of cake do you see yourself as?”, I might say carrot cake.

I could readily describe myself as a mess of spices, earthy bits and nutty pieces, sweet raisins and roots baked together, smooshed within the layers of a cake, welded mounds of sugar and spice, all hidden under a smooth cream cheese frosting.

I will explain why this speaks to me.

Adopted, I am, Latino into white, sudamericano con familia gringa.

Born in Colombia, raised and grown in midcoast Maine.

My luck of the draw, geographically speaking, although my family is quite lovely.

Often, growing up around Belfast, I was one of the very few brown kids, if not the only one, a raisin in the sun.

It was quite solitary sometimes, and although there were always friends, family, and parceros around, still I felt out of place.

I remember I had one friend, my buddy Julio, in seventh grade, we stuck together in our junior high, and sat next to each other in our classes, because sí.

But then he left, and I left soon after.

Now, coming back to Maine after years gone, I am happy to see more raisins out in the sun, walking, chatting, clumping, playing, laughing and living around this neck of the woods.

Enough raisins to fill a sweet carrot cake.

It’s an identity thing.

Also, no two carrot cakes have ever tasted the same, to me, so that’s important, as well.

I spent several years in the city of Bogotá, Colombia, teaching ESL/ELL (English as a Second/Learned Language) at a university filled with elite, snobby gomelos, Colombian Spanish slang for upper-crust young Bogotanos.

My students and I got along well, we were always on great terms, and they had a cute nickname, an apodo, for me.

Chocorramo.

A Chocorramo is a classic Colombian packaged dessert, a small cake, a simple, bland, chalky, vanilla brick of a pastry, covered by a thin layer of sugary chocolate frosting.

I will explain why this speaks to me.

To my Colombian students, because of my adoption, I am, endearingly, Chocorramo, as on the outside, I appear totally Colombian, costeño, even, from the Caribbean coast, definitely South American, normal.

But on the inside, I’m just another chalky bland gringo.

Chocorramo.

It’s an identity thing.

My main Colombian parcero (see, we circled back), J for Javi, has a fun little habit.

Whenever I am back in Colombia, J and I go trekking, road-tripping through the mountainous, lush Colombian countryside in his petite city-Audi, and whenever we stop at a local store to stock up on Gatorade, empanadas, Doritos, Coca-Cola, J always buys a mini Chocorramo, which he tosses at me with a knowing wink.

“¡Hola, Chocorramo!”

If you know, then you know.

Another wonderful, pleasurable moment, specific only to me, I believe, is when I get sent photos of cakes, the baked kind, you know.

Sometimes, from Maine to Colombia, J for Josh might send photos of Cakes-in-Process that he has whipped up, back home, on a whim.

Sometimes, from Colombia to Maine, J for Javi and my other in-the-know parceros will send me snaps of wrapped snacks, Chocorramos to be exact, that they have bought at some local store, or some random street cart, back home, on a whim.

Sweet photos of sweets snapped by sweet people in my other homeland, to send to me where I am right now, always help get me through this weather.

Summer in Maine can only mean one thing: whoopie pies.

That summer sandwich of fluffy cream and puffy cookie, squashed muffin tops, hockey puck cakes usually flavored chocolate.

The classic cream, white marshmallow, is amazing if sweet, but there are so many more flavors.

Peanut butter whoopie pies, maple whoopie pies, red velvet whoopie pies, strawberry whoopie pies, blueberry whoopie pies, banana bread whoopie pies, gingerbread whoopie pies, pumpkin whoopie pies, all-chocolate whoop—

At this point, the bottom of the fourth journal page of handwritten prose was ripped, and the meditation on identity and pastry was lost within the torn edge of paper. But what I did hold in my hands, well, certainly was something. I carefully refolded the pages, these precious diary pieces back up and inserted them into the envelope. Who, why? I stared out my kitchen window, at the snow fluttering and twisting through the gray sky. Where, when? January under Bear Hill. Reading so much about food at this time of day had made my stomach rumble, but there was no cake in my fridge. There was a single piece of pie, though. Strawberry rhubarb. Left over from something. Sweet and bittersweet memories for my tastebuds. The chilled slice was sturdy enough to lift right off its small plate, held between my fingers. I stood there, eating my slice of pie, staring through the kitchen window, through the snow, through the month of January in Maine. Bear Hill. This envelope, my door, this morning. Memories. Secrets. History. Identity. Pie. Cake. Home.