chocolate whoopie pies with strawberry buttercream

I knew she existed; everyone has a mother at some point.

I didn’t know what she looked like or even her name. I guess that’s the type of stuff only close friends know.

Several empty seats were at the table where all the good looking people were sitting. I was dressed well enough to blend in; maybe they wouldn’t say anything. I pulled out a chair, sat myself down, and became part of the crowd.

Megan sat near me, moaning and sucking in the air with her perfect red party lips. She was eating a chocolate whoopie pie, holding it just tightly enough to squeeze the pink filling to the point that made you stick out your tongue and come closer. She caught it first —  it was almost too much. Good thing she was sitting, because I couldn’t have handled her foreboding thunder cloud ass in combination with her tongue licking the diameter of both pies. A storm was brewing inside me.

I asked her where she got the cookies. “GET ONE! They’re over there.” She pointed towards the main door where the wedding cake had been greeting the guests. The cake was three tiers high, wrapped in vanilla buttercream, and swathed in a spiral of orange flowers.

Cake. Cookies. Thunder cloud ass. Red lips. It was all too much.

Four finger disturbed columns of whoopie pies were spread among two separate platters, and three other types of cookies shared the platters with columns unscathed. I took one whoopie pie and walked back towards the storm, taking my first bite before I sat back down. It was incredible.

It was life changing.

All I could hear was the sound of my jaw’s disappointment. What a bummer to take a bite into something and then not have to do any work because the thing you bit into just disappeared into a dream featuring a tunnel of light leading to an infinity pool in the middle of a pastel colored paradise, complete with warm misty air, waterfalls for days, and bodies of water so clear that you could count the scales on the fish swimming just below the surface plus see your reflection at the same time.

I usually have good posture. I collapsed. It took every ounce of energy to not stay on the floor and cry, thanking the universe for the blessing that was this cookie. When my mobility returned I put my eyeballs back in their sockets, looked past the circle of everyone’s dress shoes underneath the table, and focused my eyesight back on the world above. It was time to drink water.

“Who made these?” I asked Megan. “Brandi’s mom.” “Which one is she? Can you point her out? What does she look like?”

“She’s the woman…lemme see if I could find her…she’s the woman wearing a coral jacket and striped dress…OH! THERE! There she is!”

Her arm shot forward and a finger pointed straight towards a shorter middle aged woman with thin blonde hair pulled high into a youthful pointy tail.

This woman was my new favorite person. I wanted to sleep with her the way I sleep with my worn organic cotton black t-shirt stained with semen splatters and banana chai smoothie drips. I wanted to smell her wrists the way I smell mine when I wear Comme des Garcons 2 Man.  I didn’t smell her, but I liked the smell of her right away. Her mother looked down to earth. She looked like good people. I could tell because she had one of those permanent smiles that you get when you work in either retail or the restaurant industry, or you’re just simply a good person.

I drifted her direction and deeply inhaled all the air around her. Audibly. She turned and looked at me. “A little bird told me you made those cookies. They were FANTASTIC. I’m a new person after having one — a new woman — I’m a man, even. I think I grew chest hair.” “Thank you so much. I bake for people and it’s people enjoying it that makes baking worthwhile.” “You’re Brandi’s mom I hear. She’s a wonderful woman and I’m sure you’ve played a large part in that. Thank you for raising such a great person. And your boys! I don’t know them at all but from what I’ve seen here today they’re just as great.” “Brandi is such a strong and incredible person. I’m so proud to be her mother. Everything she does amazes me. You know, I lived my life the way that I wanted. Why can’t she live her life the way she wants to? I’ll always support her.”

Each bride has a mother and each was invited. Only one showed up.

The other mother was probably teething on a tree, asking Jesus Christ what she did wrong to deserve four gay children. She didn’t come to the ceremony. Instead she was probably at home praying, planting her palm to her forehead and cursing, pounding her skin until it was red and sore. It would be cruel and indecent to Jesus to support her daugher. Dad came. GRANDMA came. (And dressed to kill.)  Brandi’s mother had enough love and support for the both of them, but it didn’t matter to the bride who was missing her biological mother. She was being born into a new family, and who better to witness it than the woman who gave birth to her?

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