I can guarantee that the only surefire way to feel happy, for even just an instant, is to bake a cake. The process is just as fulfilling as the end result.

Step 1 - I grab a stainless steel bowl, cold to the touch, but numbing to the pain I feel in my head and my heart. I whisk my troubles aside when combining the flour, baking soda, and salt.

Step 2 - in another bowl, I beat in the sugar, eggs, butter, and vanilla. I beat it repeatedly until all my tensions have alleviated. I envelop the wet ingredients into the dry ones so they can absorb the tears from my broken heart and my worries from school.

Step 3 - I set my oven to 350°F. The tiny buttons on the oven make little beeps, little music to my ears. A melody to rise my spirit like a rising cake.

Step 4 - I liberally spray the cake pan with butter spray, releasing all of myself without abandon and guilt. I pour the cake mixture into the pan; pouring my feelings of isolation and dejection, my worries from the piles of homework and stress from tests, and my thoughts about the concerns for the unknown future, the concerns for the repetitious, dysphoric present, and the concerns for the unwavering, anxiety-ridden thoughts of the past. I open the oven door, slide the pan onto the hot rack, and slowly enclose the batter of myself into the oven.

Step 5 -  I make the frosting: a simple concoction of powdered sugar, milk, and vanilla. A chance to beat any remaining remnants of the worries within me, sweeten the bitterness I felt about the past, cover up the cracks along my broken heart, and hide all the edges where I’ve been burnt out from tests and burnt out from life.

Step 6 - after 35 minutes, the cake is ready. When I open the oven, the sweet smell wafts into the room. The jumbled mixture is now a smooth, beautiful cake. It’s unrecognizable as the mess it once was.

Step 7 - I frost the cake as if I’m dancing to a vivacious choreography that is unique in itself and unbounded by any sort of genre. I wave the spatula across the top and side, my wrist twirls, bends as I cover edge to edge, I finish with the casual lick of a finger.

Step 8 - it’s ready to eat. I get to cut into the cake. I carefully pull the slice from the whole and it gently plops onto the plate, a tribute to all that is overcome.
Whenever I have a heavy heart or pain in my head, I bake a cake. I set down the weight of my strife on top of egg cartons and flour bags, free myself from the detriments of life with whisks and bowls, let go, and bake.