I’m approaching my mid-thirties and I’ll admit it- I don’t care for getting older. I once was the youngest in the kitchen and now I am one of those old people. Okay, fine- I hate it. My staff is comprised of mostly 20-somethings with their late drinking, sleeping in, cute hair mentality. I hear about this trend, that new bar, a new hair color that I have to try out (unicorn is very in right now…don’t ask me to explain I still don’t get it), you name it...I’m hearing about it.
I do have an older sister who works in the production business, lives in Los Angeles, and really has me beat on being up to date on what to wear, what to read, pretty much what to do for/on anything. Usually for my birthday I receive clothing from her that I instantly wear and subsequently give all my old clothes the evil eye. So last holiday season I ripped open my gift to find a t-shirt as soft as a baby’s bottom with my favorite word on it.
It actually said it three times. Finally! A fitted soft t-shirt that has one of my most favorite things on it. I wore it to yoga, to spin class, to the farmers market. I wore this shirt everywhere.
(This will make sense soon, I promise.)
In typical fashion, I am prepping on one side of the pastry kitchen and one of my cooks is on the other end. In tandem we prep while chatting about what we did on our days off, how much we love Nutella, the usual. I then tell Katie, my lovely cook, about my new favorite shirt and how much I love wearing it everywhere. I’m mixing away just talking and talking and here appears Katie on my side looking at me with concern. I’m thinking, “girl” get back to your side when I see that she is trying to sort out in her mind how to tell me something. I instantly think something on her side of the kitchen failed- I spin around. Everything looks normal. I turn to her. “What is it?!”
This is when she lays it on me.
“Cake” is not the delicious fluffy pastry layered with beautiful buttercream and speckled with fruit. “Cake” is not the brown butter whipped into hazelnut flour piped with fresh figs inside. “Cake” is not the decadent chocolate pastry that I love to have on my birthday. Cake is now used in music, most times rap or hip-hop, to describe a ladies’ vagina.
There is that moment in life that you realize you have reached a new age box and it is time to accept that the younger generation will upset you, confuse you, and let you down. This was my moment.
So. To those music writers out there. I beg you to stop using pastries to talk about women’s butts, boobs, or really any reproductive parts- no poundcake, no lollipop, no cookie, and no milkshake. I don’t care how many boys they bring to the yard.