Do not Regretti. Eat Some Confetti.
Don’t Regretti. Eat Some Confetti.
James Whitley was the one girl in her graduating class — not from highschool, however from J. Robert Clayton Technical Institute for Future Authorized Professionals, which is a fussy approach of claiming the lady made it by a hellishly troublesome pre-law program with flying colours and a extreme caffeine behavior.
Everybody assumed James could be off to regulation college by September, briefcase in a single hand, ambition within the different. However James had a secret, and it lived in her kitchen. Extra particularly, it lived in her butter dish and her heart-shaped measuring cups and her worn-out, batter-stained apron that learn “Bake It Until You Make It.”
Her birthday fell on a Saturday that 12 months, the sort of sizzling morning the place the humidity is available in early and sits in your chest like a cat with one thing to show. She invited a small gaggle of mates, classmates, and confused aunts to her yard, embellished with paper lanterns, mason jar flowers, and a really massive desk that held precisely one factor: a three-layer confetti cake with frosting so thick it seemed like a snowbank had fallen in July.
“Y’all know I don’t like surprises,” her Aunt Luanne stated, eyeing the cake prefer it would possibly explode.
“Effectively,” James stated, fingers on hips, “good factor I do.”
Everybody received a slice of cake — the sort that leaves colourful crumbs in your fingers and pleasure in your molars — and, curiously, a little bit envelope tucked underneath their plate.
James stood up on the porch, holding her lemonade prefer it was a gavel. “Now, earlier than y’all end chewing,” she stated, “go forward and open these playing cards.”
They did. And each single one learn the identical factor:
“Don’t regretti. Eat some confetti. I’m opening a bakery.”
There was a second of surprised silence, the sort that falls over individuals after they have been anticipating regulation college bulletins and get buttercream as a substitute.
“Wait, you’re not going?” requested her classmate Brent, mouth nonetheless stuffed with cake.
“Nope,” James stated, smiling. “Seems the one factor I like arguing with is a sticky dough and a temperamental oven.”
“You’re giving up the regulation,” Aunt Luanne stated slowly, “for cake?”
“I’m not giving something up,” James stated, licking icing off her thumb. “I’m constructing one thing. With flour. And pleasure. And rainbow sprinkles.”
A pause.
“Effectively,” Aunt Luanne huffed, taking a second chunk, “that is higher than any gavel I ever bit into.”
From that second on, it was settled. The confetti cake turned legend, the slogan caught like caramel on a sizzling dashboard, and Don’t Regretti opened three months later in a refurbished bait store with pastel partitions and a line out the door by midday.
Seems, James wasn’t abandoning the regulation. She was simply selecting a distinct sort of justice — the sort that comes with frosting and reminds of us that generally, the sweetest verdict is the one you make for your self.
ORDER the ‘Don’t Regretti’ cake tremendous artwork print right here.
READ extra cake tales right here on Substack.
