Refusing to make a specialty cake a repetition of history in which negativity ran in wild designs, she mixed the ingredients. For the sweetest cake ever, she indulged in pleasant moments replete with glitter and samba and words dedicated to intrigue a fresh mind. Twenty-two scenarios in which the making of the cake would fail, some included an almost car crash due to a drunk driver–because they had to be drunk or too idiotic to run the red light–others included deadlock communications of bridges burned with little to no regret. Still, she mixed her eggs, she mixed the sugar with butter to prepare frosting that once added would perfect this culinary experiment. A little bit of ice scream would serve to cool bruises of past lovers and “family members” that refused to see how their manipulation and lack of love beat up the chef. Regardless, this birthday cake formulation was prepared in hopes of focusing on the twenty-two blessings given. The quick reflexes that evaded a crash, the certainty that follows a situation in which putting oneself first ensued. Family is not always in the blood, the two aren’t even mutually exclusive. The blessings are in the shoes that mom bought so that the cut on the back of my ankle would not be irritated because she knew that I deserved the opportunity to purchase ingredients that would synthesize the best cake in the history of Betty Crocker. The blessings are in the trust placed in the chef and the never-ending waterfalls of love that friends and family helped run through the crevices of this cake. Ultimately, the greatest blessing occurs in knowing that like this cake, within my chef soul, I am the harbinger of a masterpiece that holistically encapsulates the wonder, wisdom, and unity of each ingredient and scenario created into my soul. I can bake my cake and eat it too.