Cake: The Strand Magazine | Vol. 64, Issue 5

the

STRAND VOLUME 64 | FALL MAGAZINE

Dear reader, I’m not keen to admit this, but the theme for this magazine emerged from a meme: namely, the “everything is cake” trend from summer 2020. Slicing into everyday objects only to reveal an interior of cake is unsettling, to say the least. And yet, is this not the most succinct metaphor for life—that things are rarely ever as they seem? Naturally, The Strand had to turn the premise of this meme on its head.

What if you delve into something that looks like cake... and find something more?

This is the Cake Magazine. But what’s actually inside for you to consume?

This collection features 11 pieces exploring myriad interpretations of “cake” through prose, poetry, photography, and other forms that elude classification. You can find ruminations on the emotional kind of growing pains, an essay tracing the Black roots of twerking to contemporary respectability politics, critical connections between consumption and abuse of power, a satirical recipe for what constitutes “humanness” in society, and much more.

This special little bundle of love wouldn’t be in your hands if it weren’t for the dedication of my incredible team. Thank you to Holly for providing reassurance and support whenever I felt like I was in over my head with this project. To Anna for fielding my late night editorial calls and providing input whenever I came to a crossroads. To Mahathi for swooping in with technical expertise whenever InDesign was hurting my brain. To Faith and our dedicated team of copyeditors for editing with such care and attention to detail. To Seavey and our talented team of illustrators for encapsulating our writers’ words in visual form. To Adam for creating a home for this collection in the web-sphere. To Sarah Williams for pitching this magazine theme to me in the first place (exactly one year ago, at that). And to my brilliant masthead for their support.

Thank you to our writers for embracing this admittedly strange theme, and for trusting us with your stories. I can’t wrap this up without a special thanks to you, dear reader, for supporting all the love, pain, hope, joy, sleepless nights, and unparalleled passion contained within these pages.

I hope you enjoy The Strand’s first magazine of the year as much as we’ve enjoyed creating it for you.

Ceci n’est pas un cake. This is so much more.

Take care, Khadija Alam Editor-in-Chief 1

Editor-in-Chief Khadija Alam Managing Editor Holly Johnstone Features Editor Anna Sokolova Senior Copyeditor Faith Wershba Art Editor Seavey van Walsum Design Editor Mahathi Gandhamaneni

Features Associate Tehlan Lenius

Copy Associate Roensa Salija

Visuals Team

Design Team

Mia Carnevale, Faith Dong, Yoon-Ji Kweon, Kalliopé Anvar McCall, Natalie Song, Helen Yu

Khadija Alam Mahathi Gandhamaneni

Cover Art

Seavey van Walsum

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Art Associate Shelley Yao

Copy Team

Janna Abbas, Pooja Ajit, Eva Chang, Kieran Guimond, Max Lees, Rion Levy, Angie Lo, Emma Paidra, Mayumi Ramos, Jane Wen, Shelley Yao

Table of Contents Food as love

*4

Gillian Chapman

Caked up

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Serving Toronto

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How to be a “functional human”

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Marie

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19 going on OLD

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Dessert

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A.S.A

Adam Lam

Kieran Guimond

Anna Sokolova

Janna Abbas Rion Levy

A history of cake & me

*26

Maddie Corradi

The Bakery Thief

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Cake through the ages

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To be a slice of funfetti cake

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Milo Zhu

Amrita Brar

Cherry Zhang

*Note: These pieces contain mentions of disordered eating.

If you are in need of support, please see the following options: National Eating Disorder Information Centre: 1-866-NEDIC-20 Sheena’s Place: 416-927-8900 3

Food as Love Cooking as a vessel for care in Chinese culture Words by Gillian Chapman Visuals by Shelley Yao

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Content warning: eating disorders, body After every visit to the doctor—always image, and restriction. a source of dread and tears—my parents would take me to our favourite Chinese My mother is folding wonton in the bakery, where the bitter taste of medicine kitchen. She takes the thin wrapper in her would instantly dissolve beneath the sweet hands, places the filling—ground pork, lap scent of warm buns and handmade pastries. cheong, water chestnuts, green onion—in You can choose whichever one you want, they the middle, dabs the edges with water, and would say, and I would turn to the endless folds it into the shape of a small bonnet. Be sea of options before me. Vast selections careful not to add too much filling, she tells of buns lined the walls: bolo bao with their me, or the wrapper will break when we boil it. crumbly tops and pillowy-soft interiors, But add as much as you can, because more cha siu bao stuffed with slow-roasted pork, filling makes it taste better. She learned this cloudlike steamed mantou. Beside them was from her mother, my grandmother, who was an array of pastries: flakey wife cakes filled a true master in the art of stuffing wonton to with smooth winter melon paste, buttery the brim. Grandma always added too much egg tarts with golden custard centres, and filling, my mother says, her wonton would al- a breathtaking assortment of mooncakes, most break. But they tasted best that way. their delicate crusts stamped with intricate People—like wonton—are happiest patterns and wrapped around dense fillings when they are full. That is what my mother of red bean paste, black sesame paste, lotus taught me, what her mother taught her. Af- seed paste, and wu ren. ter every meal, my mother would ask me: But for me, the indisputable highlight are you full? Yes, I would answer, I’m full, of the bakery was its eye-catching display of thank you. And she would smile, pleased to celebratory sponge cakes. Unlike the decahear this, because fullness meant so much dent cakes of Western culture—which, while more than physical satiety—it meant nour- undeniably delicious, are almost too rich for ishment, contentment, comfort, security. To the East Asian palate—these cakes are hardbe full was to be cared for. To be full was to ly heavier than air. Their lightweight dough be loved. is complemented by soft whipped cream Food, as the source of fullness, was equal- and fanciful arrangements of fresh fruit. For ly symbolic: as in many Chinese families, it my family, these were the standard desserts was the language we used to express love. for all celebrations: nothing could rival their Instead of I care about you or I’m worried delicate sweetness or delightfully airy texabout you, my mother would say I bought ture. And so, each birthday began with a trip some lychees from the store, have some more to the bakery, where we would choose a cake rice, or I’m making wonton for dinner tonight. according to the preferred fruits of the celeThe best medicine for all the sickness and brant. For me, that meant cakes with plenty sadness of childhood—the foolproof cure of strawberries and absolutely no pineapple. for either the sharp pangs of heartbreak or For my mother, it meant cakes covered with the aching bones of a fever—was a hot bowl thinly-sliced mango. of red bean soup. When I would run to my This is how I remember my childhood bedroom in tears after one of our many birthdays: intimate family gatherings, red arguments, my mother would bring me a envelopes, and slices of strawberry-topped bowl of fresh strawberries—I’m sorry—and I sponge cake. There were so many words hidwould silently accept it—I’m sorry too. den within that cake: happy birthday, we love

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you, we will always be your family. And while I savoured its taste—the cloudlike sponge with its hint of vanilla, the silken cream, the sweet strawberries—it was those words, whispered to the heart with every bite, that mattered most.

But one year, that beloved cake became something far more sinister: a source of fear, guilt, and dread. As I watched my parents light the candles, flames flickering gently in the evening light, all the warmth and happiness of my childhood vanished. And as they smiled and sang—their joy so bright it hurt—I wanted nothing more than to disappear. And when I inevitably asked for a smaller slice—I’m not very hungry, I’ll just have a bit—I watched as sadness dampened their faces. Are you sure? You don’t want a little more? I thought this was your favourite— what happened? I could never give them an answer. And as I cut my fork through the too-small slice of cake, I realized how much I hated myself—hated myself for eating, hated myself for not wanting to eat, hating myself for being scared to eat, hated myself for hurting my family, hated myself for being unable to stop. I wanted to cry, scream, crawl out of my skin, burn myself alive.

Instead, I forced myself to swallow—and tasted only bitterness.

My mother is folding wonton in the kitchen. She nestles the filling into the centre of the wrapper and folds it over, sealing it like a love letter. She learned this from her mother, who learned it from her mother. She taught it to me. When did I forget?

When did I forget how to see food as love?

When did I unlearn my own culture? My mother looks at me and says: I’m making wonton for dinner tonight. I turn away and answer: I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well, I don't think I can have any. I leave before I have to see her face fall.

I can’t bear to recount all the times I’ve rejected offers of food—of love and care

and connection—from my family. I can hardly stomach the memory of my own psychological surgery, how I dug into my mind and tore out the roots of my culture, cut out my memories, erased the language of my childhood. I wish I could forget the years I spent trapped in a self-imposed exile, a stranger in my own home, a prisoner in my own body. All the things I said: leave me alone, stop bothering me, you can’t force me to eat. All the lies: I’m not hungry, I already ate, I just don’t feel like it.

Why did I refuse the love and care of my family in favour of the twisted pleasure of starvation? Why did I choose the food prepared in a cold hospital cafeteria—handed to me on a plastic tray to be consumed under threat of a nasogastric tube—over the meals made in the warmth of our kitchen?

Those paper cups half-filled with lukewarm oatmeal, containers of pre-sliced fruit, cold pieces of bread—they were all empty, devoid of the love with which my mother had stirred her red bean soup, steamed rice with lap cheong, chopped ginger, and green onion for jook.

My mother is folding wonton in the kitchen. She looks at me, her gaze heavy with unspoken concern, and says: I’m making wonton for dinner, will you have some? I open my mouth, ready to say no, but then I remember. I remember all the times I’ve refused, the times I’ve turned away, the times I’ve rejected the love I was offered.

And then, like a series of half-faded photographs, I see the warmest memories of my childhood: the family dinners gathered around our crowded table, the lively chatter over sounds of clinking ceramic at dim sum, the trips to the bakery, the sponge cakes. Silence hangs in the air, my whole life in the balance until I answer—yes, I’ll have some. I promise.

And I mean it.

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Caked Up The influence of white respectability politics on Black cultural movements Words by A.S.A. Visuals by Helen Yu

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When you hear the word “cake,” what’s the first thing that comes to mind? For me, it’s a slice of red velvet with cream cheese frosting. In today’s day and age, though, “cake” has developed a new connotation altogether—one associated almost entirely with “ass.”

Being “caked up” is a common phrase used to describe a particular, well-endowed body type (especially with the rise of the Brazilian butt lift, or BBL).

And with discussions about ass, the topic inevitably turns to dancing— specifically, the act of shaking your ass, otherwise known as twerking.

What we know today as “twerking” originated in Côte D’Ivoire, West Africa as a form of dancing known as Mapouka. The general act of dancing by wiggling and bouncing your butt is very common to West African dancing—it’s not necessarily equivalent to the provocative, Westernized version that we’re used to seeing on our “For You” pages. Mapouka is seen as an expression of joy—it’s something you often see at wedding receptions and other ceremonies. Believe it or not, West African aunties know how to get down when they want to.

Although twerking (like countless other “trends”) originated from and is steeped in Black culture, it has been swiftly and predictably co-opted by... well, everyone. Don’t get me wrong, I understand why. It’s inexplicably, undeniably entertaining to turn on Megan Thee Stallion’s “Cocky AF” or “Jobs” by the City Girls and shake your ass in the mirror. (You’re welcome for the recommendations, by the way.)

To me, twerking is fundamentally an act of taking ownership of your body. Yes, I know how to isolate my hips and my ass. Yes, I look hot. Yes, this music is moving me of its own volition. And yes, I’m falling a little bit more in love with myself. With something this empowering, who wouldn’t want to participate in the celebration of their body?

The issue is not, therefore, with the mass adoption of the dance itself, but rather the optics and respectability politics that many Black people are still subject to. It is by no means a stretch to say that twerking is still considered “ghetto,” even, in many cases, by members of the Black community. Take, for example, Doja Cat, Megan Thee Stallion, Normani, and

Something as trivial as twerking at a party actually has far-reaching implications for how we, as a society, view things that are undeniably “Black.”

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propriety are inherently shaped by white supremacy. Something as trivial as twerking at a party actually has far-reaching implications for how we, as a society, view things that are undeniably “Black.” It’s the same insidious principle that permeates countless workforces: job applicants with traditional African and African-American sounding names are less likely to be hired, and natural hairstyles are considered “unkempt.”

Lizzo (popstar and twerking aficionado) recently gave a TED Talk on her personal experiences with twerking. Among many insightful

Ciara dancing at a Dolce & Gabbana afterparty in August 2021. A video of them went viral (as it should… they killed it)—but with thousands of admiring comments also came a flood of vitriol. Some cringed at their audacity to get down and twerk at such a “fancy event,” while others questioned why Black people as a community continue to allow white respectability politics to rule their understanding of what is considered “appropriate” and “classy.”

This may seem far-fetched, but all of our social constructs surrounding professionalism, decorum, and

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comments about twerking’s inception, she recalled the incident that I like to call MileyGate—Miley Cyrus’s indelible performance at the 2013 VMAs. For many non-Black people and media outlets, it seemed that this was their first introduction to this form of dancing. As Lizzo mentioned, Miley catapulted twerking into the mainstream, not only exposing it to subsequent misrepresentation and distortion, but allowing the media to utterly strip away the influence of Black women—the pioneers of the dance. It wasn’t until Miley’s performance that the Oxford English Dictionary decided to add “twerking” to their lexicon, despite the fact that both the word and the dance had already been around for ages. It’s also damning that Timothy and Theron Thomas, the co-songwriters of Miley’s “We Can’t Stop,” claimed that when providing inspiration for the song, Miley stated, “I want urban. I just want something that just feels Black.”

Since 2013, public perception of twerking has changed entirely.

Thanks to the influence of performers like Lizzo, Nicki Minaj, Beyoncé, and the like, twerking has been adopted by a wider community and found an entirely new identity—one that now belongs primarily to TikTokers.

My own frenzied, quarantine-induced TikTok infatuation of 2020 was memorable for several reasons,

one of which being my discovery of the infamous “throw it back” challenge. Since then, TikTok has spawned a host of other trends and challenges solely judging how well one can twerk—which, for the record, I’m all for! Seeing other people own their bodies and exert sexual freedom through dance is a win for all of us.

However, the same white respectability politics allow Addison Rae to build her career off of twerking challenges while Lizzo is crucified for twerking to her own song at a basketball game. And Chloë Bailey is criticized for an “overly sexualized” rendition of Nina Simone’s “Feeling Good.” And a group of white girls twerking is seen as a fun, “girls gone wild” type of sentiment while a group of Black girls twerking is perceived as ratchet, promiscuous, and inappropriate. In Lizzo’s infinitely wise words, “I’m not trying to gatekeep, but I’m definitely trying to let you know who built the damn gate.”

The next time you turn on your “bad bitch” Spotify playlist or step into a packed nightclub, remember who paved the way for you to be able to shake your ass in public. “The strippers ... the video vixens ... the church ladies who shout ... the sex workers ... [the] ancestors,” and all the Black women in between are— and will forever be—the pioneers, the blueprint, and the best to ever do it. Ass shaking for all!

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Reflections from decades of serving Toronto as bakers Words and Visuals by Adam Lam

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Bakers with half a century of experience discuss their lives in the industry, along with a younger innovator serving luxury French pastries

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In February 2021, flickers of candles danced in front of the glass storefront of Etobicoke’s SanRemo Bakery. Over one hundred mourners gathered outside as a police car led a slow convoy of black funeral vehicles past the bakery. The hearse carried Natale Bozzo, an Italian immigrant who had served Toronto for decades as a baker until he passed away in February from COVID-19.

Bozzo co-founded SanRemo Bakery in 1969 alongside his brothers. The family worked from 7 am to 8 pm every day of the week for years to make the bakery thrive. Now passed on to Bozzo’s sons, SanRemo is one of the few bakeries in Toronto that still creates nearly all of its products from scratch.

Three years after SanRemo’s founding, a 19-year-old named Maurice Corsi joined Dempster’s Bread in Canada as a machine operator. Over his 50-year-long career, Corsi rose through the ranks to leadership positions, taking over responsibility for the taste of pizza crusts across Canada.

He also gained experience in research and development for formulations of pastries distributed widely across grocery stores in Canada. He is now the president of Bakers Touch Consulting where he consults for large operations using his specialization in large-scale pastry formulation.

While the Bozzo family and Corsi worked in baking, fashion designer Fred Naggar returned to Toronto to receive training through George Brown’s culinary program. He would then co-found Delysées in 2013 with his wife—Khariz Naggar—to provide high-end French pastries across the city. The couple introduced innovation to the city by growing a network and using it to import specialty ingredients from France, developing trade

secrets in recipes and decoration whilst focusing strongly on customer relations.

The couple’s pastries would later be distributed across high-end Toronto grocery stores such as Pusateri’s.

A multi-generational legacy at SanRemo

Robert Bozzo—owner-operator at SanRemo and son of Natale—has worked for the bakery for over 50 years. In an interview with The Strand, Robert recalled how the business survived the pandemic.

Casually sitting on top of a metal table in an expansive backroom at the heart of the bakery, the scent of freshly-baked bread hung in the air.

“We’re one of the very few scratch bakeries in Toronto,” said Robert. “[Nearly] everything we make is from scratch, from our custards to our pastry shells to our sponge cakes.”

As Robert noted, SanRemo avoids wholesale by selling pastries directly to the Etobicoke community. Taking the perspective of a SanRemo customer, Robert said: “You work hard doing your job, you earn money for that job, [and] when you go to the store and you give that store your money, you want a quality product for that.”

But COVID-19 was difficult for the family. For the business to survive, the owners had to cut costs by laying off workers, reducing staff from around 240 people to 95. They also had to work with Toronto Public Health to ensure safe operations. In addition, SanRemo invested

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in software development so customers could order food online for curbside pickup, with Robert noting that the business spent around $150,000 working with developers to overhaul their website and implement the system.

The loss of their father profoundly affected the Bozzo family and made them re-evaluate the hours they spent at the bakery. “When that happened, we changed our hours to eight to five,” he said, “so eight to nine hours a day instead of 12 hours a day, or 13 hours a day.” The reduced hours have given the family “a little bit more of a life back” beyond the bakery.

The forecast for SanRemo’s future looks positive. Robert estimates that around two to three thousand customers now walk through SanRemo’s doors each day, with sales nearing pre-pandemic levels.

“It's not always about money,” said Robert, reflecting on what drives the family to work at SanRemo. He noted that the work is “worthwhile, when you give the customer the product and they have a smile, and you see they're happy.” He also reflected on the crowds, media coverage, and widespread condolences of the community following news of Natale’s passing.

SanRemo was bustling on the day I visited, with a lengthy line of customers queuing patiently in front of the bakery as I stopped to purchase a slice of rum cake for $3.99 before tax. The slice was the highlight of my evening.

Wide-scale affordable pastries across a life in baking Most grocery stores in Toronto purchase from wholesalers instead of baking from scratch. Corsi discussed the major players behind the most affordable cakes in grocery stores from his experience in commercial baking.

Low prices are the way that commercial bakers differentiate themselves from small business bakers. Canada’s commercial baked goods market is dominated

by Bimbo Canada and Weston Foods, according to Corsi, with flatbread firm FGF Brands recently acquiring the latter in October for $1.2 billion. To compete, Corsi noted that low-cost cake providers differentiate with decorations rather than flavour. “A lot of people don't know that when you go [to most grocers] and you order a cake, they're not making that fresh for you,” he said.

Pandemic supply shortages may cause suppliers to raise the prices of low-end cakes, given that the cost of key cake ingredients such as cooking oil and sugar have drastically increased. Corsi noted that suppliers could also reduce costs by laying off workers, investing in new equipment, and experimenting with different formulations.

Growing up, my parents would sometimes buy me a slice of grocery store cake.

It wasn’t as good as the other pastries I tried for this article, but it was affordable enough to bring home often. I appreciated the thoughtfulness of it, even when the slices were more whipped cream than cake.

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Innovation in the high-end brand of French pastries

High-end grocery stores like Pusateri’s and McEwan provide cakes at premium prices, using a different strategy than Loblaws and Metro. Delysées is one of Toronto’s most prominent cake suppliers for these high-end stores.

Before 2020, Delysées focused on sales to distributors, which included catering companies, airlines, hotels, and weddings.

That left Delysées vulnerable at the start of the pandemic, which shuttered most of the bakery’s major clients and grounded operations at Delysées to a near-halt. “We had to lay off our entire team, which was the hardest thing to do, ever,” said Fred Naggar.

Khariz focused on creating a website for Delysées, which it had lacked as most of its business was from word-of-mouth.

To help the business survive, Fred recalled, “I became the driver instead of a Creative Director. I was driving around Toronto, [and] all the way up to Newmarket, to deliver $39 boxes of croissants to our clients.”

Business grew as “people really like getting croissant delivery at home during the pandemic.” The couple expanded delivery to include macarons and cakes, while Fred delivered the pastries and Khariz managed the business. The shift to online selling “saved our company,” recalled Fred. Ten months after the start of the pandemic, Delysées began hiring again.

Delysées differentiates itself by cre-

ating recipes that put a unique spin on traditional French recipes, with special ingredients sourced directly from France.

“There’s a lot of trade secrets,” said Fred.

“It could be colours, it could be a paste that you just cannot find here, period.”

He also said that even the chocolate is imported, bought through special purchasing agreements often forged through connections with European distributors at trade shows.

Fred asserts that customers should give higher-end pastries a chance versus typical brands of pastries. “People will … always remember [a] good dessert or bad dessert. They'll always remember,” he said. “And mediocre desserts, or desserts for the mass, let's say, [don’t] impress people anymore.” A perfect dessert, perfectly packaged, makes a positive impression, said Fred, and a conversation piece for every party goer.

Delysées provided a complimentary Rocher, valued at $8.95 before tax. The taste was excellent, and I thought it would make a nice gift—the packaging looked premium, with the pastry having a smooth texture and taste.

Each baking professional interviewed

by The Strand has dedicated their lives to serving Toronto with their craft. A common thread across each perspective is the willingness of the bakers to work long hours with high standards for their profession, with a drive behind their actions beyond profitability.

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How to Be a "Functional Human Being" in Society: A Recipe

Words by Kieran Guimond Visuals by Faith Dong

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1. Preheat to 350°F. It never asked for this.

It never asked to be made.

Fortunately, Its feelings on the subject don’t matter.

It’s going to exist, Whether it wants to or not.

2. Start with a base of flour, sugar, butter, and basic personality traits.

This step is very important, as it lays the foundation for the rise of the crust: Whether you want it to be introverted or extroverted, organized or lazy.

Some of these are clearly better than others, but you know, We can’t all be perfect.

3. Add creativity and individuality.

It doesn’t really matter how much you add, Or even what kind— All of the flavour gets lost in the baking process, anyway.

These ingredients are really only needed for the first few years.

During this time, they’re praised for expressing it, But wait a bit longer, and you’ll be desperately trying to pass it off as “eccentric,” Insisting to others that they’ll “grow out of it soon.”

4. Fold in the emotions.

For this step, make sure your hands are steady.

You can’t mess it up when you carefully fold them in.

(You can’t mess this up.)

Take a deep breath and— You’ve made a mistake.

Now the whole cake is ruined.

If it’s too emotional, how will it get anything done?

It will always be too worried about itself to even try to function like everyone else.

And it will be way too salty.

5. Dump the over-emotional cake in the garbage and repeat steps 1-4.

6. Add traditions and expectations.

This is considered an optional step by some, But if it constantly feels as though it’s letting you down, These ingredients remove some of the additional sweetness that you may have accidentally added, which can really take it up an extra level.

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7. Mix it all together.

This is your last chance to make sure you don’t have anything… undesirable in there.

(Oh, you’ve added too much enthusiasm for an incredibly niche interest that will make everyone roll their eyes and privately ask it to shut up?)

(Get rid of it.)

8. Bake until "done."

Now, this may be the most important step, This is where the majority of the development happens.

If you’re too rough with the cake at this stage, it will turn out misshapen and broken.

(And nobody wants to be served a broken cake, do they?)

On the other hand, If you’re not aggressive with it, it will be soft and weak.

Boring, Just the same as all the other cakes out there.

Of course, you don’t want it to be too unique.

Don’t worry! I’m sure you’ll figure it out by the third or fourth attempt.

(Though by then, you’ll have already wasted so much time trying to make it perfect.)

9. Decorate the cake.

This is all that everyone else sees, so make sure it’s done to perfection, Cover up all the cracks and flaws and the parts you want to hide away.

Even one small defect at this stage could ruin the whole thing, So make sure that it’s exactly to everyone else’s liking.

10. Enjoy!

Because there’s no reason for anyone not to.

(Right?)

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Marie told them to let us eat, right? How did the papers frame it— queen of depravity? Opaque as a mannequin in her skirts (though the libelles showed the world: this succubus won’t let us eat), she takes her last walk. Justice waits for the future her head obscures.

She steps on the foot of the man who’ll cleave apart the vocal cords which bade, I hear, to let us eat.

She apologizes. That’s not a sight I can afford. I have nothing. Our streets scream themselves hoarse.

We’re undeniable at last, and we say they will let us eat.

Words by Anna Sokolova Visuals by Seavey van Walsum

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VISUALS BY NATALIE SONG

I’ve realized that I am, in fact, turning 20 very shortly. I was under the impression that I could keep on living in my sweet delusion that I’ll be a teenager forever.

No, I will not be discussing the fact that my last two years of being a teenager were spent in quarantine.

Turning 20 has given me a new appreciation for The Great Gatsby. I am Gatsby, and my green light is a world in which I was allowed to remain a teenager forever, dammit!

I’ve just been informed that I’m no longer the target demographic of young adult fiction?!? Apparently, I’m a “new adult” now. I am now deeply afraid to reread my favorite YA books. What if I no longer like them? What if I no longer see myself in them?

On an even more disturbing note, I’m now one year away from being the target demographic of Forever 21…

Well, Lorde, it’s been almost four years and all of your music has yet to leave my monthly playlists, so where do we go from here?!

What do you mean Billie Eilish, Olivia Rodrigo, and Charli D’Amelio are all younger than me and already more successful than I’ll ever be?? Brb, gotta go ponder where I would be if I’d made a TikTok dance video last year.

I’m only turning 20. I know my life isn’t over (obviously), so why does it feel that way? Why do I feel like I’ve missed a deadline I didn’t even know about? Why do I feel… old?

What even is “old”? Why have I been taught to fear aging like it’s a monster that’s always lurking, always one step closer to me? Why, it’s the patriarchy, of course!

On top of being taught to hate everything about myself, I must now also hate the biological process of aging?!

The age difference between Leo and his girlfriends makes me scream internally. Got it: only men are granted the “luxury” of being more respected as they age.

What do you mean there are people who are “too young” to know One Direction??

I saw a TikTok video caption that read: “I wish I was a teen during the early 2010s.” I simply refuse to believe that the era in which we unironically wore galaxy print is becoming a “vintage aesthetic.”

Am I now at the age when I get to call the completion of basic, everyday tasks “adulting” in order to fill the existential hole within me? Nice.

If you really think about it, being a teenager absolutely STINKS! There’s a reason we all stare at our phones and cower whenever we approach a group of teens: the stench of unchecked egos and unsurmountable angst.

To make myself feel better about all this, I’m going to start “when I was your age”-ing the shit out of everyone who’s even remotely younger than me.

The “Women’s Pain” speech from season two of Fleabag lives rent-free in my mind. Maybe realizing that you’re growing up is “horrendous [at first], but then it’s magnificent.”

“Your high school years are the best years of your life”—shut up, no they aren’t! Maybe you just peaked in high school!!

I’ve decided that I’m no longer going to be participating in the “hating the fact that you’re growing up” narrative.

It’s the end of an era, but it’s also the beginning of a new one.

And you know what? I’m excited for it. I am gonna have my cake, and guess what? I’m gonna eat it too.

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Dessert 24

we start with the icing​​— layer by layer we peel it off each other’s dense, chewy centres: perfectly round, plump with sugar, pleasant, perfect mounds pleading to be desired. we devour— driven together, digging insatiably deeper with our fingers, tasting our softness with every lick and once the icing has dissolved or disappeared onto the floor, we look at one another like chipmunks with full cheeks and collapse under the rush onto butter pillows.

Words by Rion Levy Visuals by Kalliopé Anvar McCall

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A History of

Cake & Me

Words and Visuals by Maddie Corradi 26

Content warning: disordered eating.

Since the pandemic started, my brother David and I have settled onto the couch after dinner to watch whatever TV show we’ve chosen to obsess over. Lockdown started something that our previously distracted lives couldn’t: a ritual in a world with nowhere to go and nothing to do. But as things started opening up, the desire to share this time together didn’t go away. Neither did one of the consistent requirements of our bonding: cake.

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I have always liked cake. Loved, really. But in the interim between early adolescence and our sibling ritual, having cake once a week—or twice, or three times—only reminded me that I would have to make up for it later. Eating cake started having a clause.

The more I became aware of what food could do to my body, the less I enjoyed it. I started to love baking, but sometimes I would hardly let myself eat what I had made. Instead, I’d break a cookie in half “just to taste it.” I’d make sure to bake a cake for an occasion with guests, guaranteeing there would be no leftovers to be tempted by.

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My habits turned into a slippery slope of stress eating, and then worrying about working it off. I had cake out in the open and I had cake in secret moments, unrelated to any kind of hunger or desire. I had cake until I didn’t want it anymore.

The night that I am writing this, David and I have run out of episodes. It’s one of the nights in the last year and a half where there will be no cake and nothing to watch. And even though my brother sits in his desk chair ten feet away from me, there is a great distance between us. I miss him.

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The average cake is made of simple ingredients—flour, butter, eggs, sugar—and the rest is up to you. What flavour? What kind of frosting? Layered? Who are you going to share it with? Will you let yourself enjoy it?

A few weeks ago, I purchased a slice from a vending machine for David and myself. With Cake Boss advertisements still haunting me years after keeping up with Carlo’s bakery, I expected the red velvet slice to be stale, crispy around the edges, and have frosting that was as cheap as it was crusty. We broke the packaging into makeshift plates, cut the piece, and took it to the couch. It was surprisingly delicious: decadent, fluffy, crumbly.

Perfect frosting.

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David tossed me the remote and I pressed play.

I baked a cake in honor of getting to share this nostalgic project with him. There are plenty of leftovers sitting in the fridge. When I feel like having a piece, I will.

It took me longer than I had hoped, but after years of slow progress, it turns out spending my nights on a couch eating cake with my brother was the beginning of enjoying it again.

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The Bakery Thief

Words by Milo Zhu Visuals by Yoon-Ji Kweon

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Note From the Poet: I wrote this poem to criticize the misogynistic men who sexualize others’ bodies, and the ways in which women are subjected to objectification. This poem references sexual assault and depicts some heavy topics that may bring discomfort. If you are in need of resources, please visit sexualassaultsupport.ca or endingviolencecanada.org.

Content warning: implied sexual violence.

You’re having fantasies again expectations, possibilities, perhaps Skulls encrusted in sugar Embezzled the holy recipe Called for the destruction of dignity But you like that, don't you?

You like indulgence Damned dog scrolling down digital directories until you hit that sweet spot And oh! Is it worth it? The bulging of the eyes?

The blank state hypocrisy?

Pray to Father Gluttony You’re descending It's too late The price of frosting on the cake Stumbling scavenger The spice and dice of the wake Baked just for you A crumb of destiny What are you waiting for?

Go get ‘em, darling!

You don't get dejected by cavities You’re a performer, a genius you smoke satiety Ding! Ding! Ding! The timer is up The steam begins to cloud your bucket full of cups as the snow-powder clears, your eyes drop red Pick out your slice and fill your head At last, disappointment Was it all some kind of joke?

Doesn’t every lad get a plate?

Every poor bloke?

What fool are you to believe in sweet-toothed, candy-eyed lies Only a fool would die for some goddamned pies Can’t stand it Can’t look at their glossy sheens It’s their fault, you tell yourself licking your lips with a gleam Grab a helping of your size You’re going to take what’s yours Mister Bakery Thief

Go! Go! Go! The buzzing voices bounce Who likes meringue? Who wants a cookie?

Don’t tell me you’re the kinda guy who likes You’re overcooked at the core. cookies You’re special

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Cake through the ages

The meaning of cake at different stages of life Words by Amrita Brar Visuals by Mia Carnevale

Turning three was the very first birthday I can remember. My grandparents came over for the celebration, the highlight of which was the cake. I remember marveling over how enticing it looked and the excitement of my birthday that came with it. As a child, cake was associated with moments of giddiness and excitement, both in eating something so delicious and the fact that it meant I was a whole year older. As I continued to hit new milestones—turning double digits, becoming a teenager, my sixteenth birthday—this child-like excitement remained, and cake was always involved as a common theme.

Who wouldn’t have these thrilling connotations with cake?

Time went on and new milestones were hit, both for

me and my friends and family. Birthdays, anniversaries, and graduations all called for cake. But with these important moments came a sense of existentialism as I got older: how could I already be 19? How am I graduating high school after a virtual end to senior year? How could my parents have been married for almost 30 years? How is my brother almost a legal adult? What was the common theme accompanied by all these questions? Cake. Suddenly, that excited feeling in the pit of my stomach began to dull. Cake became a symbol of growing up—something little kids can hardly wait for. And now, suddenly, I’ve grown up, and I’m watching the people around me grow up and get older, too.

Of course, cake still has those exciting connotations that it had when I was younger, but now with an aftertaste of growing pains. As a little kid, cake meant I was one step closer to becoming a teenager, to being able to drive, to graduating, and to going to university.

All of these important moments have since been reached, and cake now sym

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bolizes the transition into adulthood— something much more scary and uncertain than turning 13. Each birthday means I'm a year closer to full-fledged adulthood; each graduation means the start of a new chapter; and each anniversary means a whole year has come and gone. How can time be going by so fast?

Cake somehow manages to be a staple of all these moments. What used to be a representation of the excitement and anticipation of getting older now reminds me of how quickly time passes, and how maybe I don’t want to grow up as fast as I once thought.

Yet, of course, cake can’t be all bad.

Somehow, cake always finds a role in any celebration, achievement, or milestone, no matter how big or small these may be. It's ultimately the silver lining of these growing pains. Yes, I may be a year older and wondering where the time went, but at least this involves indulging my sweet tooth. Although cake reminds us of how fast time can pass, it also serves as a reminder to cherish each moment. To me, cake is a reminder that

I’m getting older, something that seems to be happening so much faster than I had ever thought possible. Even though it comes along with some dread of aging, cake reminds me to slow down and appreciate the moment I am in. It is a reason for loved ones to come together and celebrate another year on this earth, an academic achievement, an anniversary, or really anything worth celebrating. In a word, cake is bittersweet. But life is short—so let’s try to focus on the sweet part.

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To be a slice of funfetti cake Frosting and fashion: questions of authenticity

Words by Cherry Zhang Visuals by Shelley Yao 37

A BuzzFeed quiz tells me “It's Time To Find Out What Type Of Cake You Are Once And For All.” It says I’m just like funfetti cake. “You’re the life of the party,” the result reads. “You bring color and flavor to everyone’s lives!”

While the description is questionable, I think the result is accurate. If the University were a bakery, and we were all its pastries, I would be a slice of store-bought funfetti cake—nice and simple, but a little messy and chaotic, held together by a dollop of generic frosting.

It’s easy to feel a little underwhelming when you’re surrounded by an abundance of far more sophisticated desserts. My first (and only) impressions of most people I pass by are based on how they’re dressed—or decorated, to extend the bakery met-

aphor. Some are elegant and sophisticated, nailing the essence of dark academia like rich chocolate buttercream, with blazers and sweaters unbelievably smooth, ready to conquer their 9 am midterm. Others are effortlessly cool and trendy in perfectly-layered pastel sweatshirts and mini skirts, ready for a picnic brunch with their homemade lunchbox cake.

There’s nothing wrong with funfetti cake, really. It’s simple and sweet with a dash of colour for personality, a crowd-pleaser at children’s birthday parties. But here, with a million slices of cake competing for attention and so many that look like they’re crafted by the finest artists, funfetti is a little… invisible.

I’ve never really had a strong personal style. There are things I like but

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would never wear, and there are things in my wardrobe that I wear but don’t really like. At this point, I feel like I dress a certain way because it’s how I always have. It’s safe and consistent, making it most true to myself—but also not at all. It’s like I’ve grown up as a slice of funfetti cake, and now that I look around me and see so many other varieties, I’m starting to question if I really am one at all. Part of me thinks I’m just susceptible to pretty things, but mostly, I genuinely want to develop a coherent sense of style because I’m fascinated by the possibilities.

I’m intrigued by fashion because it turns us into a customizable blank slate. At the same time, I’ve spent so long in my standard sprinkle-skin that I’m wary of change.

One of my favorite pastimes is going to clothing stores with friends to put together and try on ridiculous outfits. I find it incredibly freeing because in the fitting room, there is no pressure to adhere to a certain look.

You get to try things on and experiment without any commitment. I did a lot of theatre in high school, and that was my favorite part of it—being able to slip into character and detach it from my normal self. I’m someone who usually wears a lot of colour, and when I wore all-black for a performance, people close to me commented that they could hardly recognize me. By putting on a fresh layer of frosting, I could become someone different for a little while.

In reality, that separation is not as easy. Leaving the fitting room, you become fully perceived as yourself, and clothes are no longer just a costume.

I’ve always struggled with that notion: knowing that people can judge me on a whim based on what I choose to wear one day. I’m scared that I’m somehow presenting myself inauthentically, masquerading as something I’m not.

At the same time, I also love experimenting with new trends. I never was one for beaded jewelry, but when Y2K fashion returned this year, I tried making my own and have grown to really like it. It’s definitely not a staple, but it’s something fun to accessorize with, adding some spice in a noncommittal way. In that sense, we’re all a bit like cake too. We only decorate around the outside, and there are a million possible ways to do so, but the cake itself never changes. You might cut into one slathered with dark chocolate to find a lemon pound cake inside, and that’s okay! A bit of mix-and-match can be a nice surprise.

There’s a freedom that comes with fashion that doesn’t require a deep reflection of identity. It can be something personal, but it can also just be fun. I’m less scared to dress up knowing that I can always revert back to something more familiar. It’s okay to be a funfetti cake who sometimes wants to be a wedding cake, or even a muffin who occasionally becomes a cupcake.

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Photo by Kim Ngan Phung

VOLUME 64 | FALL MAGAZINE