04/22/2026
As I mixed this crunchy peanut butter cake dough, a recipe recently shared with me for a recreation for a repass, I noticed my milks at the restaurant expire on 04/29.
That's also my belated father's birthday. This year will mark his second heavenly birthday while simultaneously being a year of firsts for another family dear to my heart.
Grief is weird. Similar to yeast — it exists in every room, on every surface, it lingers in the air. Sometimes catching hold and creating something beautiful, like sourdough starters and cake.
Other times it's deep and gritty. I've been at the cemetery every night checking to see if his headstone has been placed yet. (And to no literal surprise, it hasn't) I've cried and cussed to him and to the moon.
I know their memories live on by signs like this. Nothing but a s**t ass morning led to remake this grandma's recipe — and if you've followed me from the start, you know how much respect and admiration I hold for your personal recipes. They tell stories and keep family culture alive.
My dad may not be here, but I know he stops by in spirit and I think he would've loved this cake too.
