The Birthday Cake

Since the advent of photography, I wonder if anyone can determine if their first memory is actually theirs, or a recreation of an image from a photo album.

Mine is a cake , covered in piped pink-and-gold frosting stars . Is it an actual memory of an early birthday, or simply a memory from staring too long at a glossy image of the Pink Panther playing saxophone and winking at me?

Later in life, I would see the cake pan from that day. He wasn’t winking. He was blowing what looks like smoke from his horn with the words “Happy Birthday to You” written inside. I don’t remember that part.

In trying to remember my first food memory, I’ve come up with over 90 that revolve around events in my life so far. Most are either very recent, or burned into my brain from childhood, but all of them are memorable, which, I guess is the point of memories.

I assume most of them are factual, or at least close to it, but in the next few entries I will do my best to share the details that matter.

Even if the specifics of this second, or third, or fifth birthday are blurred, what I do know is that for that birthday, my mom made a batter, baked a cake, mixed multiple colors of icing and painstakingly hand-piped hundreds, maybe thousands, of tiny stars into the shape of a cartoon character, all while managing a curious toddler and a crying infant, just so that I could have this memory.

I don’t remember the gifts I received. I don’t remember that day in general.

I remember the food and the people.