No Excuse for Cake Abuse

By Danielle Lattuga, 4-04-08

As a species that constantly inflicts or affects change on the world around us, and feels a steady compulsion to alter, improve and invent, I find it amusing that we resist change when it comes to our own lives. Yet, it is a common human trait to exhibit fear of change at least once in one’s life, if not multiple times, across numerous years.

While much of the time, I recognize fear of change as an endearing, very human quality and am inclined to forgive based on that vulnerability, there are occasions in which I would prefer to expose and destroy the fear in a less than gentle manner.

I am referring specifically to when someone’s fear of change has kept them in a career for so long that they use the length of time they’ve spent in that career as an excuse for doing a poor job, mistreating the people they interact with, or just plain copping attitude.

Further, I often wonder if this is a trend that contributes to circumstances of departure from a particular job being less than cordial. You know, that whole “way too much water under the bridge” thing. I think I’d prefer to swim under the bridge, gliding gracefully along in a gentle current and waving good bye to my co-workers and friends, knowing that I will be able to row back upstream for an occasional visit, without meeting a roaring wall of water and sediment. With all that sand in your ears and eyes, it’s hard to gain the ever-precious clarity of retrospective wisdom.

Case in point:

On a pristine and powerful September day, two of my close friends got married. They were joined through a gathering of steady heartbeats and vows, silent and spoken. The day possessed a cache of sacred spaces embodied both in the external and internal landscapes present.

After the ceremony, as with most weddings, a meal followed. The food was truly flavorful, which was good, because some of the guests were served scant portions with which to determine the range of taste and quality . . .

I held my plate out, so that she could scoop everybody’s favorite little red potatoes onto it. Two pieces, equaling about 2/3 of a potato arrived on the plate. I waited. The large long-handled serving spoon was sure to make another trip. Nope.

“Thank you, could I please have a little more?”

Her gaze widened, her head framed in a short and slightly disheveled head of brown hair. She began to slightly resemble a feline about to plunge into a bath. I saw the whites of her eyes.

“You can come back for more, later.”

To which I replied, “But I don’t want seconds, I would just like a little more.”

Yes, she was definitely glaring at me. “You can COME BACK for more.”

I felt like Oliver Twist.  But . . . I thought I was a guest, not an orphan.

Needless to say, although I was near the back of the line, and there were a few folks behind me, there were no more potatoes come back for.

Clearly, the potato police of a caterer did not prepare enough food for the people there, and what’s more, a few invited guests were unable to attend at the last minute. Had they been there, they may have gone hungry, or someone would have.

I am not saying that it is easy to calculate the amount of food needed to feed a certain amount of individuals (well, maybe I am) but, that is a lot easier to forgive when you don’t treat the guests like they are the imposition.

Had I realized at the time that this was merely the inaugural foul, I may have quietly taken action to prevent further attempts by the caterer to take control over something that she clearly had no control over (herself, in particular).  However, I was in such a peaceful and sublime state from all the crazy love floating around, that I let it drift by me, like a curl of smoke from a smoldering fire.

However, there was the fact that we had watched her scrape salad from one bowl, into the serving bowl with her bare hands, after handling raw chicken by the grill. But, in polar opposite fashion to my mate, I figured we were building immunity, not playing with fire.

(Wow, I just totally grossed myself out.)

Then came the cake. Oh, the beautiful Chocolate Chili cake, carefully and exuberantly selected by the groom himself.

It stood poised on the table with flowers accenting it’s smooth round lines. It was protected by a small canopy overhead. People gathered around the table to watch the couple make their cut. 

We were laughing and happily shuffling around so that all could observe. Then people were ducking and looking confused as flowers and debris from the table were hurled into the crowd. Potato Police at it again: in a panic because the newlyweds weren’t standing where anticipated. She frantically slid plates around, moved napkins, flung flowers, and baffled me. 

I heard murmurs, “What is she doing?”

“Why is she freaking out?”

“Woe, look out Timmy!”

She told them to cut into the top tier of the cake (there goes that tradition, if they wanted to follow it). As soon as they made their cut, she took her bare chicken lickin’, salad scraping hands and grabbed the top tier.  Slam!

She plopped it onto the table and hacked it to pieces. 

Several gasps rose around me. A barrage of titters vibrated across my shoulder blades. And then, she proceeded to use a knife and her bare hand to slap piles of the cake onto plates. I am not sure why she bothered with the knife at that point. Mysophobes made overtures of retreating to the beer and wine table.

Something inside me stirred, hot. I was in disbelief. I felt like I had seen a great piece of art tossed into a roadside irrigation ditch. I felt that she was disrespecting this exceptional day and my beautiful freshly betrothed friends.

A few careful words spoken into my ear, from a friend quite akin to a parent, set me to action.  “Are you really going to let her get away with that?”

“No, actually, I’m going to do something about it.”

I stepped through the crowd, my mate close behind. I walked around behind her and asked, “Would you like another serving utensil to help you serve the cake?”

“No, this is fine.”

I stepped away for a moment, exchanging glances with a few select friends.

When I leaned back in, I leaned close to her ear, in attempt to not broadcast my concern.  “I should tell you that a lot of folks are pretty upset that you are using your bare hands to serve this cake.” (It was hard to only address one thing at a time . . .)

She whipped her head around and snapped, “Do you want to do this, honey?  I’ve been doing it for thirty years.”

And there it was. 

My heart thumped. “Hey, I’m just telling you what I am seeing.”

The heat within rose to my skin and I forced myself to step away, because I was not going to be the one to brawl at a friend’s wedding.

Upon hearing her response, my mate quickly flared to match the heat I was now emanating. (Who needs chocolate chili, we’ve got our own spice?) Before, I could think of any other attempt at reining in the caterer, I found myself trying to subtly rein him in while leaned in with a glare of his own, “Have a little class!”

But the truth is, we had no desire to taint the occasion, and in fact, only wanted to make it as perfect as could be for our friends- a fine line, in this scenario.

It ended there because it had been such a magical day, and the power of that magic was being carried by so much more than a lady who, sadly, couldn’t tap into it. And maybe that was her purpose there, because everything enchanted has a dual nature. 

But I still think she was totally unprofessional, only proven further by her completely avoiding contact with my friends post wedding.

And I still have visions of me responding to her excuse of 30 years with a quick hip check to remove her from cake duty and a “You’re 30 years were up ten years ago. Now go wash your hands.”