The Snuffer

My mother, father, uncle and I all celebrate our birthdays in the same week. Every year, my grandmother would make two cakes for our collective birthday party – usually chocolate cake, but always covered in this gooey, white marshmallow frosting that as an adult I’m embarrassed to say that I loved.

Several times I caught my uncle running his finger around the base of the cake, then picking up a knife to smooth down the bald spots he left.

When it came time to blow out candles – of course I was first because I was the youngest – Grandma would carry the cake to the big oak table in the dining room and put it down in front of me. Yellow, pink, blue and white candles were placed around the cake, each one flickering away in a mismatched plastic holder so wax wouldn’t drip onto the perfect white frosting.

As a kid, this is one of the best moments of the year: all the attention is on you, you’re being sung to, you get to make an outlandish wish and blow out your candles in one long breath. But not with this side of the family. Instead, Grandma passed me a brass snuffer that she kept in the china cabinet. I held it tightly by its twisted metal handle and one by one lowered over it the candles, slowly extinguishing each little light. When I was done the candles were re-lit and the cake passed to my uncle. Then my mother. Then my father. Each time repeating the same routine: sing, snuff, relight, pass.

I have to admit, that I will likely become a collector of beautiful candle snuffers when I’m an old woman. I’ve only got one now, but every time I see one I get pulled in by this memory.