Sh*t Cake

Thanksgiving has never been a big deal for me. I haven’t celebrated it with my parents in a decade and, while my extended family went out of their way to make sure I wasn’t alone on Thanksgiving, I haven’t felt the magic since the time my mom and I caught the turkey on fire. Last year, Ruyman and I were so festive we skipped the whole thing and went snowshoeing. 

With that kind of history behind me, it was a real shock to find myself longing for pie and turkey this last week. Ruyman tried to be accommodating. For Thursday dinner, he made Canary-style chicken and some very edible glue made of potatoes. Still, l was homesick. 

So I decided to celebrate in spirit. If I couldn’t have the dinner, at least I could count my blessings, right? Wrong. The more I thought, the more bitter I got. I missed what we left behind. I missed our stable income, beautiful apartment, and working car. I missed privacy, security, and the ability to communicate. I missed my life.

And the worst part was knowing that this whole disaster was my idea. I was the one who wanted to go on walkabout in a country that’s economy was being held up by a string bikini and eyelash glue. I was the one who had thought stability was boring and overrated. I was the one who single-handedly screwed up our lives. And I had no one to blame but myself. Try being grateful with that as your premise.

With all the ingratitude came a huge cloud of guilt. I had a job, a place to live, food to eat, and a wonderful husband in spite of everything else. Why couldn’t I at least be grateful for that?

Ruyman noticed my black mood and asked what was up. I unloaded the whole mess on him, finishing up with the idea that I truly had to be a sorry excuse for a person if I couldn’t be happy about even one good thing in life. 

I don’t know what I was expecting him to say, but it sure wasn’t what came next. My sweet husband paused a minute, collected his thoughts, and looked lovingly into my eyes. 

“Jess,” he said, “our life right now is shit. It won’t always be, but right now it is. We can try to make the best of it. We can pretty it up and make a cake out of it, but even when it’s perfectly decorated, it’s still just shit. It’s okay to be upset about having to eat shit cake.”

I was so caught up by the mental image of a cake made of excrement that I didn’t have room for self-pity. Instead, I started to laugh. Ruyman was right. Sometimes life is just shit and I have permission to feel bad about it once in a while. In his unorthodox way, my husband kissed me better and added to Hernandez family lore in one fell swoop.

Oh, and guess what I’m planning to make next Thanksgiving?