Money Cake
I had a friend who told me stories about her mother,
how she frequently hosted parties in Pepper
Pike, Ohio, wore blue moon diamonds, served whiskey
and vodka in long stemmed glasses. My friend hid
in her bedroom and read a book, embarrassed
by her mother’s boisterous laughter.
How exciting, I once thought, to have a mother who knew
how to work the room, whose gregarious personality charmed
her admirers. My mom often catalogued flower seeds
late into the evening, dirt under her fingernails, work boots
drying in the mud room.
My friend’s mom baked a money cake for her daughter’s
eighth birthday party. Quarters, dimes and nickels wrapped
in wax paper, folded in chocolate batter. The guests sat
at a picnic table, each with a slice of layer cake, each
with a chance to win, all ears pricked to a starting gun. Go
ahead and eat, the mother announced. The kids ripped
apart moist morsels of sweetness. Some struck cash.
Others’ soured and plundered the crumbly remains. Stabbed
their forks into the soft brown guts, pocketing the change.
My friend glared into the ruins of the cake’s dark carcass,
having tasted nothing of its chocolate buttercream.
CHRISTIE CHANDLER STAHL lives in Evanston, Illinois, and visits Lake Michigan on most days. She is a former librarian, writes poetry and stories, and has published poems in Flying Island, The Winged Moon, Midsummer Dream House, Poetically, and others. She loves photography, ice cream, hiking, swimming, and cooking with family and friends, but isn’t fond of cake.
