The Irony of a Pink Circle

The box is sweating before I am, tiny droplets of condensation gather along the plastic lid like nervous tears, and I am already staring at it too intensely for a grown woman approaching forty. I am staring at a 6-inch ice-cream cake. That’s it, not luxury jewelry, not designer handbags, not one of those gigantic flower bouquets that look like they cost more than rent and die faster than my will to exercise, just a humble berry ice-cream cake from I-Mei Foods Co., Ltd., and somehow, this stupid little frozen pink circle is managing to hold the emotional weight of my entire life: The irony. Because if you knew me in my younger years, you’d know I used to worship extravagance.

I was the dramatic runaway daughter, the emotionally constipated chaos demon who was convinced love had to be Hollywood-style: Dramatic, costly surprises, extravagant romances, luxurious dinners, absurdities that made no sense. I once believed that true love needed to come with pyrotechnics. Perhaps it’s because I was raised in displacement: Of Taiwanese ethnicity but westernized in my upbringing, left feeling emotionally disoriented from both sides. “Too white” in Taiwan, “too Asian” in Canada. Essentially, an emotional hot pot. Or perhaps due to my upbringing in Canada, where everyone always smiled politely at each other but avoided emotional connections forevermore.

In contrast, Taiwanese love? Extremely frightening. The Taiwanese do not say to you, “I respect your feelings.” Not at all. Instead, they say to you, “You seem tired.” “You’re too fat.” “Put on some socks.” “Don’t eat cold food.” “Have you done number two?” Sounds crazy, but that is what love means to them. In contrast, for twenty years, I misunderstood my mom because she did not speak poetry when she loved me.

And now? Now I’m standing here crying over a berry cake because apparently, maturity arrives late for some of us, like delayed luggage. The freezer smell escapes the second I open the box. That scent. Oh my God. Not just sweetness, not just dairy. There’s something almost painfully nostalgic about the smell of frozen berry desserts: cold strawberries, cream, a faint fruity sharpness floating beneath the sugar. It immediately drags me backward through time like my brain has been violently hooked by fishing wire.

I have suddenly become a teen all over again, coming into Canada directly from a ship. The season is Winter, and the snow is piling up outside the windows of the supermarkets to my height. I’m pushing around the cart while donning a puffy jacket, looking like an agitated marshmallow at the little boxes of berries. Not because they were expensive — though they absolutely were — but because they felt delicate, Fragile, Exotic, like Little jewels from another universe. Especially during Winter. I’d open the container and immediately smell that sharp, fruity fragrance. Sweetness mixed with something green and tart. Something alive. Even as a child, I loved sourness more than sweetness. Sweetness alone overwhelms me, but tartness? Tartness wakes me up, and this cake smells exactly like that memory.

An Aggressive Femininity in the Dairy Plant

But it is when the smell of frozen berries meets the cold cream that my brain begins to untangle decades of memories. This is a beautiful creation in its aggressive femininity: pink, white, berry red swirled, as if a magical girl anime character had some sort of breakdown in a dairy plant. The glaze of the berries is rather offensive in its shininess: glistening, looking wet, that kind of shininess that makes you want to get closer despite knowing full well that you’re going to eat at least seventeen different types of sugar. Strawberry-almond chocolates are spread out on top like little pieces of edible jewelry.

My mother is beside me, preparing plates: Quietly, calmly. That particular Taiwanese mother’s calmness developed after surviving decades of unnecessary drama from their children. Meanwhile, I’m staring at the cake like it personally contains the meaning of life. And honestly? Right now it kind of does. Because this cake exists only due to a miracle, A series of absurd miracles. Miracle No. 1: Me being the one among us to request for cake. ME: The former anorexic girl, the girl who counted every calorie as a notorious fugitive, the girl who survived on coffee and lemons and insanity. For me to actually want cake would be akin to the Virgin Mary descending on the Taipei MRT train tracks. Miracle No. 2: It’s Mother’s Day weekend, the apocalypse of cake availability, especially for ice-cream cakes, especially from I-Mei Foods Co., Ltd., the one Taiwanese brand my mother and I trust with the seriousness of a religious institution. Usually, these cakes require pre-ordering: Planning, Organization, and Competence. Three things my family reacts to like an allergic reaction. Yet somehow, the last cake remains just for us. THE LAST ONE. And not just any flavour, my favourite Double mixed berries! At this point, I’m convinced the universe itself ships me with berries romantically.

My mother slices into the cake. The blade penetrates into the frost-covered layer with gentle resistance. That noise. Oh my god. That noise. It’s as if one were hearing snow crunching underfoot. It’s as if one could hear little crystals shattering. Even a touch is enough to set something off inside me. As the ice-cream cake is such an oddity within our memories. For children, it is loved for its sheer extravagance, while adults love it for its nostalgic flavour. The blade runs through the layer of berry ice cream. Pink and white layers are sliced open. So beautiful. Almost too beautiful to eat. Almost. The scent becomes stronger once sliced: Cold berry fragrance blooming upward immediately, Strawberry first: Bright and playful, then blueberry: Darker and warmer, and underneath both, raspberry: Sharp, Tangy, Dangerous. Raspberry has always felt like the emotionally unstable berry, the drama queen of fruit. Even the scent carries attitude.

I lean in without thinking. And then another memory explodes inside my mind: Teenage me. Back in Canada. Standing by myself in grocery store aisles. Alone every time. Purchasing berries even though I couldn’t afford them. Expensive little boxes that cost way too much money. But I would buy them every time. Raspberries especially. Because raspberries were about rebellion.

The Architecture of Sourness and Sponge Cake

It makes me realize more than any form of psychotherapy, for scent works without logic. One sniff of berry cream, and memories start rushing in not as narratives but as experiences, such as grocery store coolness, Canadian winters, and my mom preparing fruits when I was still young. Lunch boxes, fights, silence. All of those memories come flooding back thanks to the berry smell.

First bite and then, suddenly cold, cold as creamy cold, not fake icy cold. This is round, smooth, and cold. The flavour dissolves into a soft, velvety snow flavoured with the same flavour. Following this, there is the strawberry flavour, soft, warm, cozy, the flavour of pretending that everything is okay in the world. After that comes the flavour of blueberries, rich, strong, like the taste of blueberry jelly. The final part is the flavour of raspberries, adding acidity and elegance to this experience. OH MY GOD. This tartness changes the game completely. Without this tartness, the cake would be just sweet and rather cute.

And now I see what makes me love sour berries. Because sweetness reassures. But sourness wakes up. Sourness calls for reaction, sourness forbids indifference. The same way pain does, the same way regret does, the same way the realization comes very late that your mother sacrifices a lot for you.

I despise myself for how deeply I get when having my frozen dessert. While my mom just eats her dessert like anyone else, I feel like I’m undergoing a spiritual transformation with the berry mousse. There is always a soft, golden cake layer beneath the ice cream. And you know what? I was expecting something ordinary out of this cake. As a matter of fact, frozen cakes generally have their sponges acting as insulation foam for the food. Not this one, though; it remains tender even when frozen.

Flash back: Taiwan. Elementary school age. First experience with traditional bakeries in Taiwan after having grown up mainly in Western countries: The smell of sponge cakes, Fresh bread, Egg tarts, and sweet dairy cream filled me with nostalgia. Smelling Taiwanese bakeries triggers emotional manipulation. When you go in looking for one product, you walk out with enough carbs to make it through an economic crisis. Suddenly, I recall standing beside my mother as a kid while she chose her cakes. She always did. It was because everything counted, including money. The calculations immigrants do regarding happiness are quite different. No action is ever carefree; every purchase entails reflection, responsibility, and sacrifice. On my end, all I could see as a kid were constraints.

Each taste of sponge becomes emotionally strange now. The softness makes me feel the gentleness of my mom, even when she was worried about everything. The gentleness that I couldn’t notice for most of my life because it doesn’t come in the form of Western emotion.

Every mouthful is now a strange mix of emotions in the spongy food. The softness helps me remember how soft my Taiwanese mother really was, under all her fussing. It’s something that I never knew until now, simply because her expression of emotion was not Western.

Taiwanese mothers don’t always tell you, ‘I’ll support your dreams.’ Some just get out of bed before dawn to cut some fruit for you. Some stay by your side when everybody else is gone. And some call you on the telephone after twenty years of suffering.” Somehow, all of that comes out in this cake. Crunching through the strawberry, almond, and chocolate, the emotions hit hard: Nutty, Sweet, Satisfying.

This snap instantly brings back another memory. Mother is always eating nuts because she is crazy about “healthy brain food,” while I have been living off caffeine for years, unable to figure out why my mind was falling apart like an unstable shopping mall. The almonds add crunch to the cake. Desserts, especially when frozen, are sometimes monotonous without texture contrast. However, these little crunchy bites make perfect interruptions in the smoothness of the dessert.

The Melting Symmetry of Healing

The cake becomes increasingly soft as we eat. But it’s right at this point that everything starts tasting much better. There is an increased presence of the smell of berries, the cream gets smoother and creamier, and the ice cream melts into its soft mousse texture. And truth be told, this is when it tastes best. Messiness: Melting corners become evident, and the collapsing structure. God! What am I saying? Why do I feel as though I’m watching my mother and myself repair our relationship here? Well, for years, I had this impression that healing meant returning to a previous state. Except nothing melts back together exactly like it was at first. And maybe that’s alright. But maybe relationships don’t need to be fixed. Maybe all they need is a little change. For we will become softer after having been beaten too much.

Looking back at my mother once more, I see that she has aged. For this was a blow every year, with her hands starting to move more slowly, with fatigue creeping on her face. And now the cake has a taste of both sweet and bitter, for life happens, with our parents aging without us realizing, with twenty years passing us by.

Tangy raspberry flavour lingers sour and sharp in the back of my throat. And suddenly I realize that grief itself has the same flavor: It is not a pain that never stops, but a sharpness beneath the sweetness, an ache next to happiness.

I keep eating with a purpose this time. Every bite reminds me: The chill takes me back to winter evenings in Canada, The raspberries take me back to solo trips to supermarkets in alien countries, The icing takes me back to the birthday celebrations of my childhood, The sponge cake takes me back to the bakeries in Taiwan, The tang takes me back to regrettable decisions, The sweetness takes me back to the existence of forgiveness. When all the flavours are put together, the feeling is unbearable. I cannot imagine a more perfect representation of my life condensed in a dessert. Utter Madness, Madness indeed. What if a man came out of a stroke enlightened by ice cream?

At some point, I erupt into laughter so quickly that I accidentally breathe in the frigid air and receive an ice-cream headache intense enough to momentarily separate my soul from my physical being. Pain shoots across my skull. Tears well up immediately. I cradle my head in dramatic fashion.

This cake activates every emotional nerve ending simultaneously. Also, the berry acidity keeps stimulating saliva production like some kind of fruity psychological warfare. I keep going back for more bites.

Each and every time, thinking that this was going to be “the perfect bite to an end”. However, somehow the next bite turns out to be even better due to the melting process, which makes the dessert even more perfect since: The strawberry becomes warmer and juicier, the blueberry becomes jammer, the raspberry even sharper, and the cream drinks it all in like an emotional sponge. The longer the dessert stands, the more perfect it gets. This also seems unbelievably symbolic, since the process of rapprochement works in exactly the same way. Namely, at first it seemed awkward and painful since I had to reestablish contact with my mother, who seemed like walking on thin ice.

The edible photo sheet decoration is starting to soften, too: slightly chewy, Sweet, a little uncanny because edible printed images still feel technologically cursed, but charming nonetheless.

I stare at the remaining half-cake sitting inside the box. At this point, messy Pink cream smears everywhere, and melted berry streaks along the cardboard.

The Dependability of I-Mei Foods

And suddenly, I’m consumed by one terrifying epiphany: this is likely the most joyful Mother’s Day I’ve had. Not because everything has magically turned out perfect. I am still disabled, still mad, still fiscally uncertain, still emotionally turbulent enough to require research. But here, finally, comes a moment of Calm: Calm between my mother and me, Calm between nostalgia and now, Calm between who I used to be and who I am today. And somehow, this cake represents this calmness: Not lavish Calm, not influencer calm, not yacht-party rich Calm. Just peaceful, calm, Cake-and-dessert calm.

As I eat, I read the ingredients because apparently, there is nothing normal about me anymore. Ingredients: Water, Sugar, Strawberries, Blueberries, Raspberries, Milk powder, Coconut oil. Actually, it’s healthier than the emotional garbage I tend to carry around. And because of the name I-Mei Foods Co., Ltd., my mother automatically trusts it. And it’s important too, especially with all the recent food scandals. For the Taiwanese, it’s not just about food; food safety issues hit them hard, especially the older ones. And truth be told, I like that about I-Mei. There is something wonderfully humble about them: No artificial luxury act, no artificial “craftsmanship” at exorbitant prices simply because they put flowers on people’s mental well-being. Just good old Taiwanese dependability. The edible version of “I’m here, I’m honest, and I don’t want to kill your family.”

These last bites become increasingly soft, nearly mousse-like. The acidic notes from the berries stay lively even while the cream melts. This is the aspect of the dessert that fascinates me the most. The cake will never be overly sweet. The sour notes keep saving it from itself. Perhaps this is why I feel such an emotional connection with the dessert. After all, life without sour notes becomes worthless. The souring notes heighten one’s appreciation. The bitter times create meaning for reconciliation. The separation makes the union precious. Even the stroke that ended my old life in Canada, leading me back to my mother and back to Taiwan, somehow brought me to this cake.

And just like that, I find myself crying once more: Not wailing loudly, but quietly shedding tears as I eat my melting berries ice cream dessert, proving yet again how much of an emotionally sensitive gremlin I really am. Naturally, my mother picks up on this at once. Taiwanese mothers have some kind of supernatural ability to read their children’s emotions despite acting like they do not. She does not even need to know the reason behind my tears. All she needs to do is push a box of tissues my way. And for some strange reason, that small act devastates me far more than anything else ever could.

I take one final bite: Soft sponge, Cold berry cream, Tart raspberry finish, Crunch of almond chocolate. For an instant, the taste is almost divine. It isn’t the best cake in the world. But it comes at exactly the right time in my life. It isn’t just the taste that makes a cake memorable; it’s the timing, the emotions, the people you share it with. This tiny berry ice cream cake comes at exactly the right time for me to finally understand my mother, exactly the right time for me to finally understand love: Not romantic love, not movie love, but timeless love, Love that can wait twenty years, love that endures misunderstanding, love that can still share the last piece of berry cake with you despite everything. Perhaps that is what remains on my tongue after the final bite: Not strawberries, not blueberries, not raspberries, but reconciliation frozen gently into cream.