Case Study 93: "The Hurricake"

"Regret, by definition, comes too late;

Say what you mean. Bear witness. Iterate." 

-John M. Ford 

We interrupt this end-of-summer cupcaketology posting hiatus to bring you a very very important message:  

Don't panic.   

I have two memorable hurricane experiences.  My first was in 2003.  On the weekend of my uncle's wedding weekend in Long Island, Hurricane Kyle blew into town for the party, bringing wind, rain and thunder for days.  I took the SATs, my uncle got married, and two years later, they named their firstborn son after the storm that ruined our hair.  

The second took place early in college.  I was a radio DJ at the time, and whipped up a clever playlist of all the great apocalyptic songs.   I remember being twenty and looking for trouble.  We ran through the streets, after too many beers, in tank tops and rubber boots, screaming for Hurricane Ivan.  It just rained a lot.

 

Now listen, I'm not an expert at these things.  I am from Connecticut, and we're historically a pretty boring place when it comes to weather.  Where the Housatonic and Hudson valleys meet, there are four perfect seasons, and they are done well.  Our autumns are long, and the weather turns crisp just as slowly as the leaves and the light turn golden and the earth grows cold.  We ring in the winter with Nor'easters and the summer with humidity. We don't really do extremes. 

 

"The Hurricakes" are homemade funfetti cupcakes with tropical storm swirled vanilla buttercream.  They are as serious as I hope that this storm actually gets.  

  

We are children of war, actual natural disasters and uncertainty.  The weather is the only thing we cannot manipulate with buttons and machines.  I think this makes us realize that every time we part might actually be our last.  We learn that we take time itself for granted and don't just say what we want to say right when we mean it most.  Because more often then not we forget that we're survivors when every yesterday becomes tomorrow and we are still here. 

Today my little part of Manhattan was ordered to evacuate, and I spent latter part of the day floating in a quiet lake under a pretty clear sky.  Surely this couldn't be the calm before a storm.  Tomorrow I'll ring in Irene surrounded by friends and family, food and music.  Because whatever happens, in the end, this is a really great excuse to be absolutely nowhere but together.  

Say what you mean.  Bear witness.  Iterate.