Until a
decade ago, I’d lived all my life in big cities, bustling cities, capital
cities while harboring a fantasy that I’d only find true happiness in the
country—or in the bush, as it’s called in Canada. I longed for wide open spaces with wide open solitude
for my hermit heart. Tired of competing
for everything--a spot in the grocery check-out line, a spot with braking
distance on the freeway, a ticket for a movie I’d been waiting to see--I just
wanted to be left alone for a change.
Obviously,
I did not understand small-town life.
Here if you do anything, you know everyone. Join a quilt guild or a workout class, and
you’re suddenly in everyone’s circle. If
you know anyone, you know everyone. Someone’s
going to ask if you’re Tammy’s sister or who you buy your firewood from. Turns out we have a far more active social
life here than we ever did while holing up behind six-foot concrete block walls
that gave the illusion of personal space.
And the great surprise is how much fun this is.
We hadn’t
been here long when a friend invited us to a monthly potluck group hosted by
friends of hers (two degrees of separation).
She explained that most of the group were Baha’i but it wasn’t really a
religious gathering. It was a group who
met for “elevated conversation.” Each
month a topic went out with the invitation so people could come prepared for
discussion. Sometimes there was poetry,
sometimes art, sometimes a spontaneous song.
And there
was always cake because I can’t resist baking for any group big enough to
consume a whole cake at one meal. Depending
on the season, there were chocolate pumpkin cakes, coconut cakes, apple cakes,
maybe even a wine cake or two. I was the
designated dessert person month after month.
Until the
evening when the friend who brought us into the group said to me through a
mouthful of cake, “This is especially delicious cake.”
“Must be
all the Kahlua in it,” I said lightly.
Her eyes
rounded and she literally spun on her heels and headed to the kitchen without
another word. This seemed out of
character, but I quickly lost track of her in the large group.
The rest
of the story came to me through witnesses in the kitchen. My friend approached the host, who was
stuffing his mouth with cake. “This cake has alcohol in it!”
“Mmmm-hmmm.” Another bite.
“We
shouldn’t be eating this.”
“Mmmm-hmmm.” Another bite.
“It’s
made with Kahlua!”
“Mmmm-hmmm.” Another bite, a little faster this time. And so on until his plate was clean.
My friend
was too kind to upset or embarrass me by explaining that Baha’is do not use
alcohol. I learned this later from other
guests who saw the exchange in the kitchen.
And I was mortified because this certainly wasn’t the first spiked cake
I’d brought to the potluck. Not even the
first Kahlua cake. I may be a failure as
a drinker, but I can make some tasty things with liquor. (And let’s face it: anyone who cooks with flavor extracts is
cooking with alcohol.)
Eventually
someone gently told me about the prohibition, and I apologized many times over
until the host said, “That cake tasted like the closest thing to heaven I ever
expect to experience.” I’m betting he already
knew it was the Last Kahlua Cake, and he made the most of it. He still speaks of that cake with nostalgia.
We often
laugh about this, but there’s a lesson in it too: When the circle is small, the kindness must
be large. It expands to keep everyone
safely in the fold because no one is expendable. In a big city, people shoot each other over
an awkward lane change. In small towns,
we need each other, and even if we don’t, we’re still going to run into each
other everywhere we go. Might as well just
eat the cake and smile.
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