David and Me and the cake

David and Me and the cake

Truly great men and women are never terrifying. Their humility puts you at ease.

-          Elizabeth Goudge

Though strong self-confidence and high self-esteem are healthy personality traits, there is a point when they cease to be virtues, the point at which a person feels more important than another; or above reproach and learning. Humility, on the other hand, breeds growth and friendship. 

Here is a story that illustrates it….

Our nine-year old son, David, came home from his Cub Scout meeting to tell us his pack would be hosting a banquet and cake sale. The cakes were to be baked by the Sub Scout and his father.

I’d never baked a cake. But, having seen my wife use instant mixes, I looked forward to the project without undue consternation.

When the day came, David and I selected a yellow instant cake mix. Following instructions, we mixed the ingredients and poured the batter into two round pans. Confidently we placed the pans in the oven. Taking them out after thirty minutes, in strict accordance with the instructions, I was surprised that the cakes were not the tall and fluffy ones I’d seen in ads. In fact, they only half filled the pans. David didn’t seem to notice, and besides, I told him, some of the best cakes I’d ever eaten had been shortcakes.

We stacked one cake upon the other, and I then learned that confectioners’ sugar was needed to make the frosting. We had no confectioners’s sugar. We also had no time. The banquet was only an hour away.

I wasn’t even sure what confectioners’s sugar was. Well, sugar is sugar, I reasoned. But my wife gently persuaded me that regular granulated sugar was entirely unacceptable. I made a frantic trip to the supermarket and returned with a can of ready-made frosting.

We were already late for the banquet as we scraped and smoothed the frosting over the cake. We got it all looking frosted, even if it was a bit thin in spots. As a finishing touch I made decorative little dabs on top, inspired, I suppose, by the rough-textured paint on out kitchen ceiling. David and I trade grins of accomplishment. We thought it looked good.

My wife laughed. Then she said it was sweet and looked just fine. I hadn’t noticed that I sloped down on one side. As we hurried to the banquet, David casually mentioned that the cake sale would be an auction. For a moment I wished we’d had a little more time for finishing touches.

The hall was filled with people. Dinner was in progress, so we took our cake to the auction room.

I was stunned. A long table was filled with a fantastic array of exquisitely designed masterpieces – angle-food, devil’s food, spice, carrot, pound-all exotically iced and imaginatively festooned. Perhaps David had misunderstood and this was some kind of world cake competition. Perhaps the fathers and sons could have been assisted by mothers, professional decorators, and engineers. Perhaps we were in the wrong place.

There were cakes shaped like Indian teepees, rocket ships, Scout emblems, hats, the United States, people, and animals. There were toppings of cherries and glazes, marshmallows, and candy glitter. Cakes were displayed on ornate cake pans and porcelain serving dishes. There were cakes topped with ornaments- miniature flags, figures of Cub Scouts, Star Wars battle scenes, and landscapes.

David solemnly carried our cake forward, on the same paper plate on which we had frosted it. Seeing there was no room alongside the others, the placed it on a radiator behind the table. Carefully, almost reverently, he unwrapped the aluminium foil covering it. Frosting stuck to the foil in several spots, revealing blotches of yellow cake. I felt a flush coming to my face as I watched David, but he didn’t seem to be ashamed of our creation.

I decide to suggest that perhaps we shouldn’t participate in this auction, that perhaps… But those thought were interrupted by a deafening roar as a torrent of little blue uniforms poured into the room.

I couldn’t hear the rules. A matronly den mother relayed portions of them to me as her toddler climbed my right leg. Only the Scouts could be in the auction area and bid. I hurriedly gave David eight dollar and, as her rushed back to where the cakes were, I shouted at him to bid low, to get the most he could for his money.

After five minutes of little boys screaming at one another to be quiet, the ordeal began. The auctioneer raised the first cake. He described its design, the intricate ornamentation, the exotic fillings, the bright colours, the cherry topping. He suggested those attributes warranted a high opening bid. ‘’Seventy-five cents! Eight cents! One dollar! Going once, twice; sold for one dollar.’’ The next cake was described and sold for fifty cents. I anticipated the audience reaction to our cake and felt a dull pain inside.

My son would probably pretend he didn’t know our cake when its time came. I could almost hear the boos and groans.

I tried to make signals to him across the room. I desperately mulled the idea of somehow moving forward and accidentally bumping our cake for the purpose of destroying it, thereby sparing David the impending humiliation. Son, buy a cake – any cake – and let’s leave, I though. Then the woman beside me began watching me suspiciously. I gave up.

Was it my imagination, or was the auctioneer tactfully avoiding our cake? I began to overhear people in the audience murmuring about the one with the ‘’yellow blotches’’. Some teenagers behind me called it the Leprosy Cake and laughed. My heart ached for David.

The moment arrived. The auctioneer raised our cake. The paper plate sagged over his hand. Crumbs fell off. The numerous holes in the frosting shone garishly beneath the bright overhead lights. He opened his mouth to speak. But before he could utter a sound, David was on his feet, yelling at the top of his lungs, ‘’Eight dollars!’’

There was a stunned silence. No counter bids were offered. After a couple of double takes, the auctioneer quietly said, ‘’Well, okay….’’ David ran forward, wearing a wall-to-wall grin. I heard him tell friends en route: ‘’That’s my cake! My dad and I made that cake!’’

He handed over the eight dollars and beamed at the cake as if it were a treasure. Smiling, he worked his way through the crown, stopping once to sample the frosting with a deft swoop of his index finger. When he saw me, he shouted, ‘’Dad, I got it!’’

We drove home happy, David holding his prize on his lap. I asked why he’d opened the bidding by offering all the money he had, and he answered, ‘’I didn’t want anyone else to get our cake!’’

‘’Our cake.’’ It was our cake. But I had seen it only through my eyes – not those of that special little boy who is my son. Once we got home, we each had a piece of our cake before David went to bed. It tasted pretty good. And, by golly, it looked rather nice too.

Does your ego ever stand between you and the joys you might otherwise get out of life, between you and relationships important to you?