The image above was posted on Facebook late last night by Dr. Diane Dreher, one of my former professors from Santa Clara University, who is now a life coach focusing on positive psychology. The first thought that came to mind when I read the words on the image was of a Boston cream pie. Let me explain.
In the early 1960s, the Vicente Bakery, so named because of its location on Vicente Street between 42nd and 43rd Avenues, was my family’s go-to establishment for baked goods. I always enjoyed watching the baker guide our fresh loaf of warm cinnamon bread with cinnamon streusel topping through the slicing machine before wrapping it in a clear plastic bag. I’m sure the bakery sold donuts, as well, but for those, we would either go to Billy’s Donut Shop on Taraval or wait for the yellow Colonial Bakery truck to ramble up 38th Avenue with drawers filled with donuts and pastries. Ah, such pleasant memories… but about that Boston cream pie…
In mid-September around 1963, for what would have been my mother’s 34th birthday, I decided to employ a gift-giving strategy I had recently learned. Even today, it sounds like solid advice: purchase a gift you’d like to have for yourself. As I got older, of course, I realized the limitations of this approach to gift-giving, but as a nine-year-old third grader, it made sense to me at the time. So with probably no more than two dollars in the pocket of my jeans, I walked down Vicente Street from 38th Avenue to the bakery. I knew I had the perfect birthday gift for my mother. Yes,… a Boston cream pie.
If I’m not mistaken, the baker even scrolled “Happy Birthday, Mom!” on top of the pie. I should mention that this special dessert is actually more of a cake than a pie. Apparently, it got its name when cakes and pies were cooked in the same pans, and the terms were used interchangeably. It consists of (from the bottom up) a layer of yellow cake, a layer of custard, and another layer of yellow cake topped with chocolate frosting. It was my favorite dessert in all the world, so I thought it would be the perfect birthday gift for my Mom. Now, back to the image above.
Like the rabbit which brought the flower to the little boy, my intentions were good. In retrospect, however, I can’t help but laugh at the innocent self-centeredness of my gift selection. And like the little boy, my mother was grateful for my thoughtfulness. Perhaps my gift wasn’t perfect, but Mom knew it was real, and that’s all that mattered at the moment. In fact, that’s all that matters now, too. I’ve learned through my lifetime that the term “perfect love” is an oxymoron. Love isn’t perfect, and the concept of perfect love isn’t real. We would all do ourselves well to embrace and appreciate the imperfect love we experience in our lives and to recognize that it is so much more valuable than perfect love — because it’s real.
Oh, and yes, in 1963, one could purchase a Boston cream pie for under two dollars!
