New Years used to be the hardest holiday for me, a high pressure event that relies on one’s ability to count backwards while drinking was never going to show me in my best light (for that, check me out on Sukkot).But add in FOMO, being awake past midnight, and reminiscing with a chance to over-promise? Well you’ve got a recipe for all of my worst qualities to come out and team up with my anxiety that I am not doing it right. Leading to predictable yet somehow unforeseen disappointment.
All that changed in 2012 when my then boyfriend (now husband) and I spent NYE in a small bar/performance space in Manhattan’s Lower East Side. We spent a night sitting on folding chairs watching as various performers came up to tell stories or sing songs related to the holidays. It was delightful, and I barely checked my phone to see what everyone else was doing.
Toward the end of the night an artist took the stage with a story about her grandmother purchasing an inedible cake from a Pepperidge Farm outlet store in Florida. After an evening of debate, her family decided to place the abomination in the middle of the road by their house and wait for a car to run it over.
I remember her face as she told us about the feeling of anticipation as a car would turn the corner onto their street, and speed toward the cake...the family’s excitement growing along with their voices “aaaaaAAAHHHHHHH!” and that excitement crashing as the car would simply miss the cake. And this continued for some length of time on their slow trafficked suburban street, until finally -- finally -- the right car came along to hit it, exploding the cake and turning the family’s anticipation into joy.
At the end of the story, the young woman brought forth a single oversized Zabars cupcake, and told the crowd, “after midnight, I am going to put this in the road, if any of you would like to join me.” Wordlessly, my boyfriend and I agreed that we would join her. (We probably exchanged words about this, but it’s like eight year ago at this point, and I’m being cinematic).
Several more stories were told, champagne was distributed, and “Auld Lang Syne” was sung. Then, around 12:30, an announcement was made that the cupcake was being placed for those who were interested. I bolted for the door, terrified to miss out on what I knew would be the experience of the evening for me. I found a spot with a good view of the road, the sidewalk not quite crowded with people, but the streets stuffed with taxi cabs. I had left my jacket inside, assuming it would go quickly (and with the temperature that year being mild for New York).
It took five minutes for the cupcake to transform from baked goods to street stain. But that five minutes was exhilarating in a way I find challenging to explain. It’s so stupid and childlike to get excited to see something smashed by a car—like putting a peny on the train tracks, or launching a water balloon from the roof. You can imagine the outcome, but there is a thrill in seeing it for yourself.
Watching as the cars would arrive, always, at first, seeming to be in a direct pathway to cupcake annihilation, and then, magically, they’d miss, the cupcake disappearing under the car, its fate unknown for a second. And then out it would pop, fully intact. This cycle repeated several times, as the crowd would scream louder each time, hoping to influence the outcome. Eventually it happened: A bright yellow Taxi appeared, crushing the sweet confection with its front right tire, causing a sugary explosion and a fever pitch of screaming from the gathered fans (bigger, as passersby on the street had joined in the joy). It was better than any countdown clock, more jubilant and chaotic, with an undetermined (but expected) outcome.
It became our New Year’s Eve tradition. Every year, whatever plans we had, we’ve made time for us to put cake in the road, and wait for a car to hit it. Some years are harder, with the wind chill making the wait an endurance test. Some years the cars take forever, or the initial placement is bad, making the anticipation agonizing. And one year a friend of ours walked through the cake in an act of both defiance and mercy, seeing the area was limited in its cars, and no longer willing to remain cold.
With the pandemic, I’ve used the cake smash as an alternative to Birthday parties, bringing one cake of eating (at a distance) and one cake for smashing. It’s been a fun way to see people and have some joy in a year that has robbed me of some of the many other traditions I enjoy (like eating too many deviled eggs at work parties).
So this year, while you enjoy a much smaller New Year’s eve, might I suggest you take some time to put something delicious in the road, and wait for a car to hit it. It can be a metaphor, or it can be an experience, you can decide that for yourself. Either way, it’ll be different than yesterday, and there’s something nice about that.
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Also what should I write about next?
my daydream where I have to find the best song in the world
another story about that girl who interviews superheroes
A story about aliens and a bored 30 something
A date where it turns out they were training for a heist or something
non-fiction