For the past few decades, Randa has made my traditional birthday cake each year. For as far back as I can remember, my Mom made a yellow chiffon cake with strawberry icing for my birthday. Well, actually, the first several years it was a shared birthday cake. My oldest brother, Richard, was born exactly ten years before me. And, conveniently, I was born exactly ten years after him. So… Mom would bake one cake. No sense in wasteful duplication, you see.

I really love chiffon cake. I love the taste and the texture, the lightness and shape. Mom always made it in a big pan with a rounded “spike” that left a hole in the middle of the cake. You know, the traditional angel food cake pan. Sometimes, Mom would fill that hole in the center of the cake with a mix of cake crumbs and icing.

I never suggested that to Randa after she got the recipe from Mom and started making the cake for me. Seems excessive, I suppose. No need going to that extra trouble for something that’s already wonderful. On her own, Randa would sometimes add fresh strawberries as a decorative flourish to the cake.

Yesterday, though, given that Randa’s recovery from a broken humerus is still a noticeable distance from complete, she wasn’t able to do as much on her own. It started with her asking me to get the cake pan from the top shelf in the kitchen cabinet.

“You know, you have a pretty good excuse for not making a cake this year. I will not be offended.”

She looked at me as if my head had just split open and alien spaceships had flown out. I quickly inferred that I should not waste further energy on attempted dissuasion. She did acknowledge, however, “I may need your help at a couple of steps.”

Sure enough, about an hour later, she asked me to come to the kitchen. She’d already separated seven eggs, blended up the yolks into the flour mixture, and whipped the whites into a frothy mix that reminded me, somehow, of fluid Styrofoam. She handed me the bowl of dough and said, “I need you to tip in just a little of this at a time into this other bowl.”

So, I tipped in a little of the yellowish dough mix into the bowl of whipped whites as she folded it in. Repeat eight or ten times and the two were thoroughly but gently blended together. Then, poured into the cake pan while being careful not to pour it directly onto the spindle in the middle.

After the pouring, baking, inverting over a wine bottle for cooling, and watching a bit of football, it was time for the icing. Once again, Randa solicited my assistance. “Assistance” being loosely defined and dubiously interpreted.

Details aside, we managed to cooperatively blend the softened butter, three cups of powdered sugar, and a few tablespoons of strawberry juice. Randa spread that onto and over the cake, making a very nice job of it for a one-armed baker and cake decorator.

As usual, the cake is delicious. I had one big piece last night and a slightly smaller piece for my breakfast dessert this morning. Goes mighty fine with a cup of coffee. One small difference this year, though. I had no idea how much was involved in making a chiffon cake with strawberry icing.

Like a whole bunch of other things in our lives, it wasn’t until I got personally involved, albeit rather slightly, that I understood how much time and effort had gone into making this very valued part of my birthday tradition. I think a lot of us spend too much time at the table and too little in the kitchen. All those years of Mom and then Randa making something so cherished and appreciated had passed with no true understanding of the gift.

God bless those folks who do so much for those of us who understand so little of what they have done. I’m pretty sure God understands what that’s like…