There Will Be Cake

It is the most-delicious cake I have ever had in my life.

I'm not denied many pleasures in life, though the ones I desire the most are among the ones that are held back.

The first time I took a bite, it filled my mouth with flavour, richness, decadence. Sweet, but not too sweet. Moist, but not soggy. Fulfilling, but not filling.

My wife got the recipe from a magazine. It could have been one of the LCBO's publications of Food & Drink, the free magazine that often has the most mind-blowing recipes we've ever enjoyed. We keep one of the holiday editions with our cookbooks, the delicious recipes being plentiful within its pages.

About five years ago, my wife baked a multi-layered, dark-chocolate, applesauce cake with a chocolate-cheesecake frosting. Just thinking about it, now, gets my mouth watering. When I took my first bite, that day, I knew she loved me. I could taste it.

"I want you to make me this cake every birthday for the rest of my life," I told her.

"I think I can arrange that," was her reply.

The next year, we got busy. I don't typically celebrate my birthday. I have a party maybe once every decade. But we will go out for dinner or she will prepare a special meal at home. On the year following my first taste of that awesome cake, we had something else going on during my birthday, and she couldn't make the cake.

"Over the weekend," I said. "You can make me the cake next weekend."

It didn't happen. My heart sank. 

The following year, I reminded her of that cake. "You owe me two, this year: one for this birthday and one for the cake you never made last year."

She laughed. What was so funny? Had I made a joke? I didn't think so.

I didn't get a cake that year, either. With both of our daughters in competitive dance, there just was no time. Weekends, that year, were an utter write-off, as far as finding time to do any housework, shopping, or other errands. By the time an evening came 'round, we would prepare a dinner and then relax with a movie or TV show. There was no time for cake preparation.

And so, with the subsequent years in which the kids danced, that lovingly baked cake would remain a memory. I'm not blaming the dance school, nor do I hold any resentment towards our rigorous schedule. We were helping the kids follow their passions, and we took pleasure in watching them shine.

But there would be no cake for my birthday. If there was, it would be something purchased from a store. Its ingredients would be over-processed. The cake would lack any personality.

There would be no love in the cold mouthfuls.

This week will mark my 50th birthday: my 27th birthday with the woman who is now my wife. It is also one of the few years in which I celebrate my birthday with a party, with as many friends around me as possible. I consider myself a lucky man.

But I swear, there will be cake.

Long Life and Prosperity

A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP—Leonard Nimoy

I can't think of many people who, in playing not only another person, but another species, in an acting role, has affected so many. And I don't think there is anyone in our popular culture who has touched us in his passing as much as this man.

In the age of social media, I think only two other deaths have had as large a presence: Steve Jobs and Nelson Mandela.

Leonard Nimoy, in his portrayal of STAR TREK's half-human, half-Vulcan character, taught our generation of humanity's strengths and weaknesses. During the space race and the Cold War, he taught us that only as a cohesive unit, working together, can the world achieve great things. In the 80s, in The Voyage Home, Spock showed us the consequences of our short-sightedness in not caring for our planet.

Even in his reprisal in the remake of the 2009 film, STAR TREK, Spock showed us our lives are not set in stone, and that we have to take charge of our destinies.

I saw my first episode of the original series when I was three, and grew up watching reruns, countless times, in my youth and teenage years. I have seen all of the movies, became an addict over The Next Generation, Deep Space Nine, Voyager, and Enterprise. To say that I have been immersed in the STAR TREK culture is an understatement.

And that culture would not have existed, if not for Spock, James T. Kirk, and the crew of the Enterprise. As much as I looked up to Captain Kirk for leadership, I turned to Spock for inspiration, for hope, for perfect reasoning.

Even outside of the STAR TREK universe, Leonard Nimoy has had a profound presence. I saw him in the 1978 remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, where, even then, in his role of Dr. Kibner, he tells of how humanity, in being turned into clones by alien pods, would be in a better state without emotions.

Each week, in the late 70s and early 80s, after watching yet another episode of the original series, I would turn to a show called In Search Of..., which was narrated by Nimoy. The show would explore strange phenomena and try to explain theories in unsolved mysteries, such as the disappearance of Amilia Earhart. The show was, in Spock's words, fascinating, and I felt that having Nimoy behind it lent the show some authority.

"A solar eclipse. The cosmic ballet goes on."

Nimoy even lent his deep, serious voice to The Simpsons, where he played himself but also insinuated that he was part spaceman. And on an episode of The Big Bang Theory, nerdy and self-absorbed genius, Sheldon Cooper, has an imaginary conversation with his Spock action figure. Leonard Nimoy, of course, gave the figure its voice.

Many Canadians have also honoured the Vulcan by defacing a five-dollar bill, transforming Prime Minister Wilfred Laurier into Spock.

I didn't do this: you shouldn't, either. But still...

I have even consumed and reviewed a beer that was inspired by Spock. In the past couple of years, I have followed Leonard Nimoy on Twitter, and have also admired his photography.

Nimoy has been like a star on my journey, not always guiding but ever-present. Now that that star has been extinguished, the universe seems a darker place. But, just as our eyes adjust to the dimness in a lightless room, our lives will go on, having been enriched by the man, whose character gave humanity hope for its future.

He lived long, he prospered, and our lives are made better for him having been there.

Of all the souls I have encountered in my travels, his was the most human—William Shatner, as Captain James T. Kirk

Photo Friday: The Longest Month

It has been the coldest February on record. The Rideau Canal has seen the most-consecutive days of open skateway in its history.

Winter doesn't seem like it's ever going to end.

The snowfall has been mercifully light, with no more than a couple of centimetres of light accumulation (made light by the bitter cold) most of the time, and only one or two storms that have left us with close to 10cm. Shovelling, thankfully, has been minimal.

With the cold, the snow hasn't melted, and the depths have grown. But the snow doesn't bother me. I love how the crisp, white accumulation beautifies the landscape. It's the cold that has made me tired, that has depressed me to no end.

The path from the office parking lot to the building has grown narrow, and has steep banks on either side. It's a long trudge on a cold day: when there is more than myself walking the path, we do so in single file, or heads hung low as we endure the cold journey.

It's too cold to explore the outdoors, to capture photos. There have been times when I've driven in my car, when I've seen the beauty of the fog along the Ottawa River, when I've seen the glow of a sunset or a sunrise, when I've spied a snowy owl, perched on a barren tree branch. I've wanted to pull over and capture the sight, but I hesitate, I shrug, and I keep going.

It's too cold to pull over and get my camera out of the trunk. Wearing mittens isn't conducive to photography.

And so I long for spring, for warmer weather. But with this month, it seems as though winter will never end. This has been a brutal winter. In these frozen depths, this has been the longest month. Like the path to the office, it is a long, depressing slog.

Um... Happy Friday?

Throwback Thursday: A Man of Many Hats

He started off as the neighbour who drove cool cars.

Then he became a friend, helping me catch a baseball and teaching me how to box. He got me interested in cars, in vintage aircraft—helping me build models: he, doing much of the work and the finishing touches; me, playing with them and displaying them, like special trophies, on my bedroom shelves.

And then he moved in with us, was my mother's boyfriend, then husband. He went from the man who moved into my home to the man in whose house I lived, the man who took three kids on as his own.

He went from being referred to as my step-father to being the one I referred to as "my father" around my friends, even though I have always addressed him by his name, rather than by any title.

He taught me how to drive, helped me get my first, second, third, and more cars. He gave me my first camera, let me use his when I became good enough to entrust with it. He gave me my first glass of wine, my first sip of beer.

He was there when I got married, when my kids were born—to them, he is a in every way their grandpa.

He has played all of those roles, and more. And though he is still a friend, he is above all else, family. He is one with whom I can share a laugh, a serious discussion, a beer or a single-malt whisky, or a rant.

Happy Birthday, Greg.

Game night, circa 1988.

Wordless Wednesday: Québec City in Winter