Selfish Joy

Joy that's just for me

I love red velvet cake.

That statement deserves its own line. Red velvet cake is that important to my existence. It wasn’t always that way, largely because I didn’t understand the scarcity of red velvet cake made the right way. Growing up in the South, red velvet is a religious experience appropriate for every occasion from birth to death and made only one way - dark, dense, and piled high with buttercream.

My Grandmama’s (I didn’t misspell that guys, that’s what we called her…it’s the South) friend down the street always made our red velvet cakes. They didn’t look like much, but damn, when that first bite hit your lips…your blood sugar spiked, your senses heightened, and your tongue knew it had been blessed.

Once I started venturing out of the South and didn’t make it home for every birthday, baptism, and baby shower, I realized that red velvet cake is an anomaly across the broader U. S. of A. It exists, but it’s awful. Things red velvet cake should not be - fluffy, pink, light. Your teeth should hurt after you eat it, and you should be reminded of the need for resistance training when you pick it up off the counter. This is apparently not a universal truth.

All this to say, I may be slightly picky about my red velvet cake. Okay, okay, vast understatement, I am straight up OCD about it. I won’t eat it unless it tastes like home, and it is the only cake I physically crave. This is why on my birthday every year, my husband goes searching. See, we no longer live in the South and therefore there is a high probability of failure if you just order a “red velvet cake”. It’s not that simple. It requires research, taste testing, and prayer that my PA-bred husband doesn’t F-it up.

This year, he got it right. Oh. So. Right!

Isn’t that glorious?!? I’m embarrassed to admit how much of what’s missing found it’s way in to my belly.

And I imagine by now you’re wondering why I’ve wasted 344 words on cake. It’s selfish right? Me holding you hostage to read an ode to red velvet cake just for my own pleasure.

Quoting a dear colleague who drives me insane with this response on the regular…”Maybe". But maybe I’m just sharing my own selfish joy.

“Selfish.” It’s a word with such a naughty connotation. I realized I didn’t actually know it’s dictionary definition, just the internal squeeze I felt when I went to write about my cake addiction. So I looked it up. “Concerned excessively or exclusively with oneself”…yup. Pretty much.

But shouldn’t I be? It’s my birthday, after all. Is it not okay for me to hold on to a joy that is entirely and exclusively for me? A joy that has to be just right to be experienced at all? Does joy always involve concern for others or can it be unabashedly selfish?

My mother was a rock star at birthdays. From dawn to dusk, your wish was her command. I swear I’ve heard that woman yell “Bippity Boppity Boo!” as she waved her magic wand and conjured up whatever ridiculous thing my heart desired. It was your day. Period. You didn’t have to be concerned with bupkis. It was all about you.

Now that my mother is gone, I realize the gift she was trying to bestow. Selfish joy. She wanted us to experience joy created only for our pleasure. And she needed us to see that even if for only one day a year, giving ourselves permission to fully indulge was not just allowed, but celebrated.

I struggle with selfish joy. It feels, well, selfish.🤷‍♀️ But I love red velvet cake. And I don’t really care if anyone else at the party does. I want it to be MY red velvet cake. And if it’s not, I’m deeply disappointed. It’s a small thing, but in as much as it symbolizes the permission I give myself to fully indulge without concern for others, it’s actually THE thing standing between me and joy.

This year, I shared my cake with beautiful humans. I shared my selfish joy with pride and passion not caring one iota if they experienced the same mouth transcendence upon eating it. It was an in-vitation to my joy, not an ex-pectation. I think that’s the trick to selfish joy. You can invite others to join you, but with no expectation that the joy will transfer. The invitation is about as concerned as you can be with their joy. After all, this one’s for you.

Eat cake people. Eat sinfully good cake. Or don’t if what brings you joy is crappy cake. But eat YOUR cake. And like it. A lot.