I had a slice of pound cake the other day. Buttery, dense, with a crunchy golden crust. As I bit in, I thought of my dear friend Carroll. It’s been more than a decade since we’ve lived in the same town, but I’ll never eat pound cake without thinking of her.
That’s because in every crisis of my life, a warm pound cake—fresh from Carroll’s oven—showed up at my door. It signaled love, comfort and understanding, all folded into butter, sour cream, flour and sugar. The cake was always followed by her unjudgmental wisdom and concern. I don’t know how many she bakes in a year, but if you rushed over to comfort a friend, odds were the cake got there first. I never asked for her recipe, and maybe that’s the point. I’d never bake it for myself.
Other friends have their own signatures. One always sends gorgeous flowers for a happy occasion, and if it’s truly dire, a plush throw blanket arrives. Another mails the perfect book matching the moment. I know men who bring their “trademark” offerings—grilled ribs with secret sauce, or a curated six-pack of craft beer. Different forms, same idea: people who pick something comforting and stick with it. Not coincidentally, they’re also the ones who always show up.
That’s the beauty of a signature gesture—you don’t have to think about it. No reinvention required. And honestly, showing up empty-handed is harder than showing up with anything: food, books, blankets, whatever you’ve chosen.
But show up anyway. That’s the real gift.
It’s listening. It’s knowing when not to talk. There’s an art to not making grief heavier by filling the air, to resisting the urge to say something that demands the bereaved now comfort you. You only realize how tricky that balance is in hindsight.
I’ve tried and failed to land on a signature gift. For a few years I baked apple pies. Then chocolate chip cookies. Then an unfortunate foray into baking sourdough bread, knitting terrible scarves, and painting inspirational sayings on rocks. I’ve rehomed Bundt pans, rolling pins, and yarn, but still have a fat bag of colorful rocks if anyone needs encouragement to “Rock On.”
Intentions, I have. Consistency, not so much.
My wardrobe offers a slightly different story. Open my closet and you’ll find beige and white in summer, beige and black in winter. When I FaceTime shop with my daughters, they sigh, “That’s so you,” which translates to, “Why ask when you buy the same thing every time?” But it works. I was a capsule wardrobe queen back when TikTok was just a clock sound. So, it’s not like I don’t get the value of consistency. I just can’t seem to land on the right thing.
Lately, the pace of needing to show up has quickened. I even find myself doing what my parents do—calling my daughters to tell them sad news about people they don’t know. And they do what I still do: offer words that help me process.
This week, two lovely volunteers from a group I’m part of died. I’ll wear beige to the visitation, but I’m definitely not bringing a rock.
Perhaps it’s time to buy a new rolling pin.
