When I stumbled upon an old, yellowed index card labeled “Compromise Cake,” my mind immediately wandered to whether my mom had ever baked it. And if she had, did she ever actually take a bite? The mother I knew had a reputation for being fiercely resolute, and by the time I came along as the fourth child, baking wasn’t high on her agenda. After my parents’ divorce, her willingness to connect with others dwindled, leading her to let go of relationships with friends, family, and even her own kids.
Perhaps it wasn’t entirely her decision; maybe her friends distanced themselves, all too eager to judge a divorced woman struggling with mental illness, as if issues like these were contagious and best left unspoken. I often wondered if her bitterness about her circumstances made it harder for others to see her in a better light, which might have lessened her anger and despair as she navigated life as a divorced mother of four, carrying the label of a mental patient. The only formal diagnosis I ever overheard was “burned out schizophrenic,” a term I learned from my sister, dropped casually by a medical professional. We were never directly informed of her condition; one moment she was just “crazy,” and that was the end of it.
Among my school friends, she was merely viewed as someone who was depressed. By junior high, she had transformed into the cool mom who welcomed kids seeking refuge from stricter households. She never endorsed underage drinking, but during our teenage all-nighters, it felt like we connected on a different wavelength when we experimented with substances. She was always my biggest supporter when it came to my artwork, never batting an eye at my habit of drawing on the TV screen with crayons during our late-night gatherings.
I was too young to determine who had abandoned whom—my mother or the world around her. The once sociable young bride morphed into a less engaging, often unpredictable woman, stubborn in her ways, especially when it came to baking.
Some people believe that compromise is essential for life and a cornerstone of civilization, while others outright reject the concept. Most often, she resorted to baking Devil’s Food cake with chocolate buttercream frosting, a dessert that would sit on the sideboard and harden over time. My teenage sister, focused on her figure, steered clear of it, while my brother was wary of the ingredients our so-called crazy mom used in her homemade treats, preferring store-bought confections instead. I spent the most time at home with her, drawn to her unhappiness and the cake that seemed to taunt me from the sideboard. I tried not to indulge, especially as my siblings affectionately dubbed me names like Chubby and Thunder Thighs, despite evidence showing I was only slightly above the ideal weight—hardly justifying such teasing. In fact, compared to the other “chubbos” in my dance class, I was practically a runway model!
Finding that recipe card for Compromise Cake made me reflect on how innocuous the term used to be in mid-20th century America, and how fraught it has become in today’s divided society. While some view compromise as fundamental to life, others recoil at the very mention of it. Our current president has tirelessly sought to bridge divides with his political adversaries. In a moment of humor, I even sent him the recipe for Compromise Cake, suggesting it might lighten the mood at the Super Committee on Deficit Reduction meeting. “Maybe wait until they’ve had a slice before revealing the name,” I quipped, “and see if anyone chokes!” Unsurprisingly, I never received a reply, and the committee didn’t meet its goals.
The recipe card was signed by Eleanore Levey, although I am unclear about her connection to my mother. Perhaps she was from my mother’s hometown of Burlingame, or maybe a kind neighbor from Castro Valley. Regardless of her background, I suspect she had only the best intentions when she paired “compromise” with “cake.”
In any case, the journey through my mother’s complexities taught me valuable lessons about resilience and the power of connection, even when it feels like everything is falling apart.
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Summary
In a reflective piece about a long-lost recipe for Compromise Cake, the author explores their relationship with a challenging mother, who became distant and uncompromising following a divorce. Through anecdotes about family dynamics and societal perceptions of mental illness, the piece highlights the complexities of compromise in both personal and political realms.