I am the biggest birthday brat that I know. I love celebrating my birthday, and always start reminding people about two months in advance that the important day is arriving. The culmination of my day is always the birthday cake. For me, it is the supreme indulgence that I can enjoy and feel totally glutinous without any feelings of remorse. Usually my choice in cake involves many hours of inspecting different pastry shops, supermarkets, and restaurants, in order to find the most luxurious cake that suits my taste. This year was no different, but I took a new approach. I would make my own cake. I have been exploring the idea of the act of indulgence, and wanted to take full part in the production and consumption of the dessert that would be my object. I have been feeling lately that being part of the construction of an indulgent dessert makes for its consumption that much more pleasurable, and even brings in a level of restraint that is abandoned with other acts of indulgence.

The Persian Love Cake. I was flipping through old copies of Bon Appétit and found a recipe for a layered cake with saffron- infused whipped cream frosting and candied rose petals. I fell in love with the photograph in the magazine, and started obsessing about the cake. I had never candied rose petals before, and I knew that I would have to find organic roses in order to be able to do it. Since it is now September, I was hesitant to use a flower that flourishes in June. I was also considering not infusing the whipped cream, because I am not the biggest fan of saffron. Its subtle flavor is always lost on me, and its color has never been very appealing. We began putting the cake together the night before, by making the sponge layers, which were two 8 “ cakes made with pastry flour, eggs, and sugar. Although the cakes were quite easy to put together, they were so delicate, that after seeing them leave the oven, I knew that I would be doing everything possible to make sure that the cake came out perfectly, even if that meant infusing the cream with saffron. With each passing step in the cake, I found myself more and more invested in its impeccable outcome. The rose petals had to be candied twice because the first ones were too crispy and stuck to the pan. And in the end I did in fact infuse the cream, because I had gotten in too deep, and found saffron in my drawer. When I tasted the frosting, I was happy that I had followed the minute instructions, because its subtle flavor was no longer lost on me, but exposed an element of flavor in the most modest of ways. The result was a sweet interior mellowed out by the neutral whipped cream. The off- white exterior was made alert with the red of the roses. Simply put, the cake was beautiful. It put the Baked Alaskas that are typical of my father’s birthdays to shame, and made me almost embarrassed to have made something of such luxury for myself.

I found myself more than content with just having one piece. When I went to eat my cake, it was not the usual fork shoveling of rich chocolate into my mouth that I usually equate with birthday indulgence. Instead, it was a steady ceremony of small bites that were given adequate attention by every part of my mouth. Since each element required attention in being put together, each element was enjoyed for its own flavors and textures. It was not a cake to be eaten hastily or with wanton excess; it was a cake that demanded a slow undoing and moderation. I feel that my explorations in the world of indulgence are just beginning, and the Persian Love Cake was just the first study of many.