I write today not of one of my obsessions but rather one of my sister's. My sister Beverly. Beverly Peltier. I've got to be clear about this. Not because I have a lot of sisters. In fact, I have only one - Beverly. I clarify because Beverly gets a little miffed when I refer to her in print in a nameless fashion. So all readers be aware that this post is about my sister Beverly Peltier. Okay. Now about her obsession. 

Beverly is the guardian of my grandmother's recipe for mayonnaise cake. Don't sneer. This is a fabulous cake. The mayo simply replaces the eggs and oil, which we all know are the primary ingredients of mayonnaise. Think of it as a shortcut. Anyway - the cake. Rich, chocolately, moist, and slathered in cream cheese icing. A stand out. Celebrated by all who consume it. You would think Bev would be content with that - the universal endorsement of her cake as a winner.

Two years ago, at my 40th birthday party, I noticed my sister and my editor having an animated conversation in the living room. The next week, when my editor and I were chatting about my latest overdue column, I mentioned that she and my sister seemed to connect at the party. She chuckled and said, "She was trying to convince me to assign you to write a column about her mayonnaise cake." I had gotten used to the regular inquiries from Bev - "When you gonna write a column about my cake?" I never thought she'd corner my editor.

This past year, Marian and I were telling Bev about one of our upcoming supper club events. Our friends were planning a Cuban dinner and we were assigned dessert. Bev offered to make a mayonnaise cake for us. I raised an eyebrow. She explained that we could decorate the cake with an edible photo of Elian Gonzalez. You remember Elian, the unfortunate young poster child for strained Cuban- American relations? "They're grooming him for political office," she assured me.

Bev doesn't recall these moments. I reviewed them with her last month after she made yet another delicious iteration of The Cake. What she does own up to is this odd little quirk. Every time she bakes a mayonnaise cake for me, I offer to leave a few slices behind for her enjoyment. She always refuses. And the next day, like clockwork, she calls to ask me what I'm doing. "I'm on my way to Target to return those flip flops." ... or ... "I'm running down to the office to pick up a file." ... or ... "I've just sliced open my hand and am headed to the emergency room." It doesn't matter what I say. Bev's response is this .... "Oh, I thought you might be on your way over here with a piece of the mayonnaise cake."

Bev, I love the cake. We all love the cake. But the time has come for you to turn over the recipe to another member of the family. You're beginning to worry me.