I believe there’s one single best way to eat cake.
No silver forks on the perfect plate, not even at a wedding.
The best way to eat cake is straight out of the box, surrounded by people you love, who maybe didn’t even come with their own forks.
This all started in 2023 when I was in a situation that gave me access to a near-endless supply of slightly imperfect cakes.
Every Friday night, after scrubbing the floors and counters of syrupy icings, jams, and bread crumbs, I’d walk out with a bag full of rejects, desserts deemed “not good enough” for the town of Norton, Massachusetts. Which made them, in our opinion, absolutely perfect.
That’s when the BYOF tradition began. Bring Your Own Fork.
A group chat, a cake circle, and a weekly tradition that made our little college suite feel like the warmest place on campus.
Every Friday, the same cadence:
I’d bust through the door to my roommates with an armful of paper bags and boxes.
The cookies went to Annah and Meg, as well as the cinnamon rolls. The morning glory muffin was reserved for our neighbor. The big box — the real prize — was carefully placed on the floor like a trophy I had won and brought back from the championships.
I’d whip out my phone, scramble through the makeshift drawers we had stacked below our minifridge and hot plate setup, and tap out those four sacred letters to the chat with the same name.
Then I’d start gathering as many forks as we had clean.
(Of course, not everyone managed to actually BYOF, and we prided ourselves on being gracious hosts.)
Seconds later, as I pace with excitement to welcome my first guest, my phone buzzed. Like I’d need a reminder as to what was about to happen. They were here.
While my roommates got comfortable in their claimed spots, I bounded down the steps to the front door.
Friends, roommates of friends (also friends), and whatever visitors they were entertaining at the time of my correspondence trickled in by the group to our cozy little common room.
Initial hellos were made. My roommates called out familiar faces. I beckoned the last few newcomers through the door. And I could only wonder if they knew they had found themselves in the single best place on campus that night.
The regulars took their usual spots: perched on the armrest of the couch, the windowsill, in front of the airfryer, and scattered in a circle on the carpet.
Centered around the focal point: a taped-up white cardboard box that had been begging to be cut open since the first set of eyes were laid on it.
I always started with a little introduction, specially catered to the people with extended invitations. I talked about the cake and told them a little of what to expect. It typically went as follows:
“Hello everyone, thank you so much for coming and bringing your own utensils, we have this box too for anyone who didn’t get the memo…”
Cue laughter. I’d scold one of the frequent visitors for not clueing in their +1’s and we’d pass the extra forks around the circle.
“As you can see, today I brought the Gâteau Charlene — the most decadent chocolate cake with luscious layers of preserved strawberries and chocolate buttercream. We top it with chocolate-dipped strawberries and shaved chocolate.
Here, Izzy — god, fuck, I’M SORRY — you can have the strawberries. Guys, let her go first.”
We had to be extra accommodating for our allergen-sensitive folks, the worst of the offenders being our own roommate with dairy, gluten, peanuts, and most other nuts.
She usually scooped off the frosting and fruit. Cake for all.
“Okay, okay, true, get some pictures, do what you need to do, and then Izzy goes, and then everyone please, I don’t want this cake to be here in the morning.”
Normally at this time, conversation flowed and we were ready to begin. I unveiled the main event, posed for the various flashes and blushed humbly as everyone urged me to take the first bite. It was ALWAYS a big deal. My fork first, digging directly into the center of a thick frosting swirl and breaking through to the cake beneath for a mouthful as large as my face.
As soon as my fork came out clean, the group pounced.
From there, it was a welcome chaos: chatting with newcomers about the cake, what the hell was going on, and anything else that came to mind as the sugar dissipated within our bodies.
Oftentimes our TV was turned on. YouTube queued up to a nostalgic cartoon or a blond, well-built singer gyrating on stage. We passed bites, got comfortable.
Began to exist as a unit. Conversation flowed.
Bodies sprawled across our dingy, unvacuumed shag carpet.
This ritual of ours grew way past my own control, so large that at one point it wasn’t just BYOF, but also BYOD(esserts).
We shared cheesecake cups and bowls of fruit, and. we shared space.
It’s strange what makes someone feel present — fully connected to the moment, accepted into something bigger than themselves.
That year, that spring, that week, even that hour, as long as we had a mound of sugary frosting and layers of chocolate, vanilla, and strawberries, we belonged.
That’s the power of the fork.