Just minutes ago I stared at the deformed shape of what I can only call "The Beast." Without a doubt, what I just baked appears to be the most disgusting thing in the house (including Clinton's rat and everything in the garbage can.) When I crawled out of bed this morning (still feeling sick; still am as a matter of fact), I had the brilliant idea that I would bake you a Mother's Day present. Considering my culinary "skills" it would have made more sense for me to buy you a cake, or even flowers, but it seems that the good people at Albertson's are unwilling to debate their outrageous price tags. Nevermind that it (was) the day before mother's day, apparently everyone else had the same brilliant idea to buy a present the day before. What a bunch of procrastinators we are. Which brings me to the deformity underneath the "tinfoil of shame." Maybe it's good. I have no idea. If you taught me anything, it's not to judge by appearances. So, I'm doing my best to accept my creation as a good and decent cake, which I'm sure it is, deep down inside, underneath the layers of disaster. My mission began quite simply with a box of cake mix, eggs, water and oil. It certainly sounded simplistic; just mix everything together, bake and viola! Instant masterpiece. Problem # 1; no shortening with which to grease the sides of the pan. No matter, I simply sprayed on the cooking spray which I use to coat the pan for my morning "toad in the hole" toast. Then I was supposed to sprinkle it with flour, which ended up being a bit clumpy. Bravely I continued my quest, and poured the gloppy mixture in the pan. At which point I realized I was supposed to have pre-heated the oven. hmm. While the oven warmed to cooking tempurature, I scanned the nooks and crannies of our cubbard for some frosting. But to no avail; we exist in a frosting- free home. Feeling very Martha Stewart, I pulled out "the joy of cooking" to find a recipe for frosting. How hard could it be? Frosting is basically just sugar, right? In any case, that's what it ended up looking like; watery, melted sugar. Yum. I hadn't realized there was a difference between frosting and "glaze", but now I know there is. Frosting is whipped and tasty, while glaze is that sickening stuff smeared over the top of the cake. I shouldn't have put it on. That was mistake # 2. But I thought it might improve the looks of the lumpy brown blob sitting in the cakepan. If you notice little tan splotches on the top, that's where I tried to "lightly sprinkle" cinnamon on top, as the book instructed. Everything in nature seems to like to clump. I scraped off the horrific blobs with a spoon, then re-coated the whitish goop on top as a cover. My next idea was to spell out "Happy Mother's day" on top of the glaze with chocolate chips, but considering the unsteady topography of the concoction, child-like nature of my handwriting, limited abilities as a chef, and increasing queasiness, I decided to quit while I was ahead. If you call standing in a kitchen, which looks like a tornado ran through it, alone and nauseated, with no company but the sickeningly sweet smell of hot sugar, ahead. And I sat down, defeated, wondering why I keep torturing myself and others by making pseudo- food, which is, more often than not, inedible. It must have something to do with my mother instincts dying to come out. And today, I think I set out to prove that I could master this cooking thing, maybe so you'd see that I put effort into something that's hard for me, and that I cared about you enough to make it beautiful. I equated the level of my success with the level of my love for you, but as you can see, the two aren't congruent. For that to be true, I'd either have to really hate you (matching the cake), or the cake would have to be more beautiful (and definitely more tasty) than the cake at Brandon's wedding ( to match my heart.) But, as everything is a learning experience, I learned from my cake-making escapade. I realized how completely clueless I am about some things, and how scary it's going to be when I leave home. Sometimes I think I'm so ready to go out in "The Real World", and be my own person, but it's moments like these that scare the crap out of me. How am I supposed to be a complete and independent person when I can't even make a cake on my own without screwing it up? I depend on you for so many things. You are my fashion advisor, voice of encouragement for school, counselor, and always willing to spend time together. You are great at giving advice, you know "the whole story" because we've been through it all together, and we're still here today. Sometimes you get the short end of the stick, because I know you'll always love me. I allow you to see the worst side of me. I know that's something you probably aren't really happy about, but we get through the worst times together, if for no other reason than because we're family. You're better at telling me how sad you're going to be when I leave for Texas, and I know I get annoyed or am not willing to talk about it. Maybe you're dealing with it better than I am. Truthfully, the idea of leaving everything I've ever known, and flying halfway across the country, makes me feel sick to my stomach. Everything seems so final right now; last year of high school, last Prom, last mother's day at home, and I won't be here for anyone's next birthday (although Clinton's 21st is cutting it close.) I definitely don't feel all of my 18 years, and I wonder if you felt the same way when you graduated. Were you ready to leave home, exited to take on the world, or wishing you could go back to the beginning of senior year again? Maybe I've been pulling away; not spending as much time with you as I used to, and I think this is a defense mechanism. I don't want it to be hard to leave. I don't want to be a little girl who can't go on another day without her mom. I don't know if this being more distant makes going away easier or harder. But it's never been easy to depart from the unfamiliar. I love you so much, and I don't want you to be sad when I leave. I want all of the best for you, and I want you to be happy. I want you to wake up every morning to a job you love, with people you love, and feel like you really belong. What I really want is for you to be proud of me. I want to show you that yes, I have screwed up before. There are so many mistakes I wish I could go back and fix, but you can't change the past, and you can' go back. You told me that. So instead of looking to the past, I'm going to march ahead to the future and do the best I possibly can. And I want you to see that I am everything that I could be, and that it's a reflection of the love and devotion you've shown all of us over the years. There are times I look back, and I know I couldn't have gone through them without you, and I see the depth of your understanding. But this is old news. We know what went on, God knows how any of us survived, but we did. "Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger," right? I don't know about that. Don't you think it would be nice just to have things easy, and not worry about that whole being strong thing? Fortunately, things have been looking up and up, and they can only get better from here. Just as I'm beginning a whole new part of life, you will be too. And I know it's going to be scary (as most new things are), but we'll figure it out. We've been through worse, and can definitely take on what life throws our way. I'm so exited for you. There are so many things you can do and people you can get to know, if you just set your mind to it and put forth the effort. You put so much love into everything you do, it's impossible for you not to be successful. And although everything probably won't go exactly according to plan (take, for example, the disaster in the glass pan), things will turn out in the end. We'll see what happens with this cake. Which was, by the way, supposed to be a surprise (thanks Clinton), but maybe it's better this way, so you know what kind of a mess you're getting into. I love you. Happy Mother's Day.