January 24

You say you love me with a fruit cake caked in silver foil, something secretive and rare. No words sprinkled on top.

I love the cake more than for its moist, fruity innards; the crusty outing that cracks between my teeth; the taste of childhood in every bite.

I love the cake because it is made by you.

I wish I could tell you that, but in our family, we never speak about such things. You make cakes and I write about it.