by Shelley Bennett
I came across a picture on Facebook the other day that reminded me of my childhood. It was a picture of a cake in the shape of Holly Hobby and the caption said, “You knew one person whose mom had the patience to make one of these cakes.”
I shared the post with the comment, “It was my mom.”
The cake is very elaborate with at least seven varied colors of decorative frosting and different tips to achieve the effect of Holly’s curly hair, her bouquet of flowers, and muslin apron. I think mine was even more detailed to show her patchwork dress.
I remember my mom preparing for this particular birthday party. It was stressful. She had already made me a matching Holly Hobby outfit to wear to greet my guests. And now she stood in our kitchen for hours and fretted over baking the cake itself (cherry chip), coloring the frosting, and maintaining the temperature of the frosting (if it was too warm, it wouldn’t hold its shape; too cold and it wouldn’t pipe correctly).
In the meantime, I ran around without a care in the world, excited to see who would show up at my party.
That wasn’t the only time, either. I think I made my mom create three more Holly Hobby cakes for me, each highlighting a different decorating technique and new pose of the iconic Holly Hobby. I was obsessed for most of my childhood.
Birthdays were different in the 70s. You went to Hallmark or Sprouse Reitz to pick out invitations which you painstakingly filled out by hand. There was always cake, ice cream, and the ubiquitous fruity punch with sherbet melting in it.
Maybe a few crepe paper streamers, some balloons, and a pin the tail on the donkey game and you were to good to go.
My birthdays were often a time for both sides of the family to get together and visit. The date is inconvenient, being two weeks before Christmas, but my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins would all be there.
My memories have that faded color to them, like the square-shaped photos we would pick up at Eagle Thrifty after they were developed. In one, I am looking at the camera with a pouty expression on my face, arms folded in front of my chest.
My hair still holds the golden hue of childhood and is curled at the ends. (Probably from the sponge rollers I slept in.) My dress a cream and peach polyester, leather Mary Janes on my feet. I look pretty ticked. I wish I could tell that little girl to look around the room one last time before she disappeared into her bedroom to play with her new toys.
I’m forty-some years too late, but thank you mom for making that cake. All the cakes.
I didn’t know then what a sacrifice you made for me.
Remember when news was ‘newsy’? When you read about weddings, family events and engagement announcements in the newspaper? If you have something that might be newsworthy, please submit it to [email protected] and I’ll do my best to include it here in “The Good Stuff.”
