One fabulous deconstructed wedding cake sample after another was brought to the table and formally introduced: “So, what you have here is a chocolate hazelnut cake, with dark cherry filling, a vanilla meringue frosting, and an optional coffee soak,” my daughter explained as the rest of us were already eagerly dipping in our forks, and sampling mouthfuls of deliciousness. She had made six different cakes, plus various fillings, frostings and soaks which we were encouraged to mix and match.
My youngest daughter, the Bride-to-Be, scrutinized every mouthful, wanting (and knowing that her sister would make it happen) absolute perfection for her wedding cake in October.
Once the sugar rush had settled in, a bottle of champagne was opened and a homemade charcuterie board of goodies was brought to my dining room table. I felt so honored to have everyone gathered in my home together for the first time in a decade.
Then, the reminiscing began. My daughters shared stories about their childhood upbringing in Sedona, Arizona, and I found out things about these 30-something daughters of mine that I had never known. Such as the fact that, without my permission, they had walked everywhere in town when they were only nine years old (the age of my granddaughter), when I thought that they were playing with friends in the neighborhood.
“You did what?” I exclaimed, with my eyes wide open in horror. It wasn’t easy being a single mom, and apparently a few things fell through the cracks back then. Thank goodness we lived in Sedona during a time when it was so small that almost everyone knew each other’s business. So, it was a pretty safe place in which to grow up.
Even in their 30s, I could hear my daughters audibly “gulp” across the table, like children about to get into trouble.
I narrowed my eyebrows and glared at them and growled, “You’re grounded!”
They exhaled, and we all laughed. Then there was silence as I got a bit pensive.
“Actually, the only thing that I remember getting really mad about was when you would lie. I had no tolerance for you lying about something,” I said, randomly.
My daughters looked at me skeptically, and I could see their eyes roll as they searched their memory banks, trying to prove me wrong.
“Hmm…” they finally shrugged and relented, “Yeah…actually, you’re right, Mom,” they said simultaneously.
“I used to tell you: ‘If you don’t lie, then who will people turn to when they need to know the truth? YOU!’”
They both nodded, and I beamed, knowing that they were sometimes painfully direct and honest when asked a sensitive question.
I smiled victoriously.
