Cake is a witness to another year of survival.
It seems a given, something reliable one could expect at a birthday celebration for that once-a-year mandated wish. It is well-travelled, something sent by relatives or friends who wish to be a part of the festivities, no matter where they are. The existence of the cake validates the novelty of the celebration – not just during birthdays, even in other important milestones. Having a cake at a gathering guarantees three things: a song, a wish, and a community with whom to share it. Even from the other side of the world, it tethered me to something familiar and safe on the day I turned 24, alone in a small town in Seville, Spain.
Gerena is around 25 kilometres northwest of Seville, a town so small that there is no public transportation except for the bus that comes and goes to the city centre every hour and a half. It boasts a history of an old railroad station and canteros (stonemasons), and a landscape of archaeological sites and old quarries. They hold events for the residents and the occasional tourist, but it is far away enough from the centre to maintain its charm and cobblestones. The establishments in the area are local, and it is completely unreachable for ride-hailing or food delivery apps.
Towards the end of 2023, I was a Language Assistant at the Instituto de Educación Secundaria de Gerena, the only secondary school in the area. I helped teach English to Spanish students while actively polishing my Spanish. I chose to live alone just six minutes away on foot so I could be immersed in the pueblo, as opposed to living in the city, as I’ve done my entire life in Metro Manila. Being the only Filipina in town became a jarring experience to me, and the puzzled folk who all knew each other, having been neighbours for generations. Until such a time that I also felt like a local, having known my way around and frequented the usual establishments.
In November, I began to feel anxious about the possibility of celebrating my birthday with the little money and “friends” I had, which were a few teachers who took me out to coffee a few times and my co-Language Assistant, Clare, a British girl I frequently had tostadas with at La Quedá during breaks. A few weeks before, at a faculty gathering in the back of a small church, I had a typical Spanish feast cooked out in the open. Aperitivos of olives, potato chips, jamon, bread, and different bottles of wine. For the main course, two types of arroz made in humongous paella pans: one with different mushrooms and the other with meat. For dessert, I was generously peeled an orange by the custodian, who wanted to show me his handiwork. By sunset, it became an opportunity to celebrate someone’s birthday with a sheet cake and traditional Spanish delicacies from a local bakery, also known as the oldest one in town: Horno La Caballera.
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When I first met Macarena, we spoke in a mix of Spanish and English. I nervously inquired about getting a small birthday cake, but the most basic one they had was a sheet cake that could feed more than 10 people for 25 euros. The bestselling flavour was the San Marcos — nata, bizcocho, and yema tostada. It was like a rich cream cake with a caramel-like syrup made of egg yolk that was traditionally Spanish, known especially as a flavour of the famous turron.
Two years later, Macarena would tell me that la tarta de San Marcos is an antiquated recipe that originated from the Middle Ages at a monastery in Castilla y Leon. It has always been present in grand celebrations like weddings, baptisms, communions, and birthdays for centuries. Until now, it is a staple in Spanish pastelerías because of its affordability, accessibility of ingredients, and the universal fact that most people, favourites aside, would eat a slice or two. Modern iterations include adding chocolate cream known as trufa, but most would argue keeping the original recipe sacred.
I only had two other requests for the cake: beautiful flowers and a dedication in Spanish.
My 24th shaped up to be an uneventful day, only made special by my efforts to add a little flair of celebration in the mundane.
In school, I brought cookies and other sweets to share with the entire faculty and staff — a tradition I found similar to the concept of pakain and salu-salo in Filipino, wherein it’s customary to feed people during a milestone and share the meal together. It fosters a sense of community, something I sorely ached for as a young adult in her first time outside of her homeland. For lunch, I fried some of the lumpia I pre-made a few days ago and prepared a classic Filipino spaghetti, hot dogs and all, sans the banana ketchup. I shared the meal with Clare, who also ended up helping me take my dry clothes down from the rooftop. Just before sunset, we secured a table al fresco in Bar La Catina with my gigantic cake. Three other teachers came bearing presents, and I suddenly felt the tiniest bit juvenile with my bazaar-bought pink sash and crown. We ordered drinks, and I accidentally asked for chocolate, the thick one for churros, when in my head I pictured hot cocoa — which they referred to as Colacao or Nesquik, depending on which brand the establishment carries.
They sang as I blew the candles out and waited for me to open my gifts before we awkwardly parted ways. I took home the leftovers and shyly gave some to my neighbours and my landlord, a Spanish man in his 70s who brought me 24 pieces of produce and bread as a gift. I called everybody back home and responded to some messages. It wasn’t much, but it also wasn’t nothing.
There were beautiful flowers on my tarta de San Marcos. Written lovingly in melted white chocolate by Macarena: Felices 24 cumpleaños, Marielle!
Back then, the next two years of my life seemed uncertain in a way that triggered both despondence and exhilaration. It was a time of paradoxes, of needing desperately to be alone but craving the warmth of familiarity during the holidays or when I was bedridden with a cold. There was a tinge of regret amid troubles, but a wave of relief in the independence I painstakingly forged.
As for the birthday wish, I asked for better days, and maybe a friend or two.
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I kept coming back to Horno La Caballera occasionally, sometimes after a walk around town. Macarena greeted me most of the time, if not her other family members. I would usually get an extra treat on the house, and in return, I would deliver some homemade lumpia and dumplings. I began to form a friendship with Macarena, who was just around my age, a makeup artist, and so fascinated with Korean culture that she was seriously studying Korean. We’ve done two Bridgerton marathons at her place and mine with a couple of other friends, some drinks and tapas occasionally. She made me a tiny Roscón de Reyes so I could celebrate my first Three Kings Day, albeit alone. I bought a cake and some Valentine-themed sweets in February. I was quite heartbroken when I found out I had to leave Seville and move to another region for the next school year. On my last night before moving away, we had dinner at Danbam Korean Bar in the centre of Seville, and drinks by the Guadalquivir River. She shared that the summers tended to be scorching down South, so Horno La Caballera normally closed until autumn. The Soju-infused cocktail made me confident enough to converse in Spanish all night. I left her with a copy of Almond by Sohn Won-pyung in Spanish. We plotted travels, talked shit, and waxed poetic over our luck at friendship; never mind the risk of being lost in translation.
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For my 25th, I lived in Zaragoza. Macarena couldn’t make me a tarta de San Marcos from afar, but she did send over a box of sweets and biscuits with an English copy of The Vegetarian by Han Kang to let me know she did not forget my birthday. It was a gesture that came unexpectedly. I told her of my decision to move back home at the end of my contract. She eagerly exclaimed that she wanted to come along with me on the journey. She had never been to Asia, but it had always been her dream. For her birthday, I got her a Lonely Planet guide to the Philippines in Spanish. We began a tradition of our own.
We booked plane tickets. By the summer of 2025, I was back in Gerena for the last time in a while to say goodbye to the first place I ever called home in Spain.
I stayed over at Macarena’s house, where I learned more about homemade Spanish food from her mother. I was suddenly a part of family lunches and dinners for a few days, save for the times we opted to drink outside and order a bunch of tapas for the table. I was told repeatedly that should I come back, I have a family in Gerena waiting for me. I think back to that birthday wish I made when I was 24, with the candles on the San Marcos cake I never knew would manifest a life worth living and an unexpected friendship.
For two days before they closed until September, I volunteered at Horno La Caballera. Macarena guided me into making Polvoron to bring home, which had Manteca de Cerdo or lard, typical in most Spanish baked goods. Given the historical connection, we also have Polvoron in the Philippines, but it is made mostly of powdered milk and sugar. I treasured being able to see their recipe books with the old and new delicacies. For my part, I did some piping, packing, and taking inventory while customers made the most of the last few days before the hiatus.
Aside from cakes and sweets, they also made various types of bread — it was a pastelería y panadería, after all. While the entire bakery closes for the summer, the bread stays all year round. They have always baked it in a traditional wood-fired oven to keep the quality and taste consistent from childhood. Horno de Caballera, I learned, was built in 1995 on Piedra Caballera in Gerena; everything then was made by hand without the help of modern mixers. Before all that, Macarena’s paternal great-grandmother, Adela, started making bread at home so that the family could survive. Her grandfather (aptly named Marcos), whom I had the privilege of meeting in their ancestral house, was a hardworking man with a thick Andalusian accent who made his mother’s passion and ingenuity a reality. He used to raise chickens to sell in the morning. At night, he helped make bread, as well as created recipes for biscuits that are still being used today. Macarena’s mother, Marilo, adds more recipes to the growing offerings of sweets each season. Her father (also Marcos, as is her brother) kept the tradition going for the town of Gerena. I rarely saw him around the house because he worked through the night while everyone slept.
Macarena said that the baker’s job has always been about sacrifice: “He works at the bakery all night, so the entire town has bread in the morning.”
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On the last day before my little despedida, Macarena finally taught me how to make la tarta de San Marcos. I patiently learned each step and came out of it triumphant. We had the liberty of decorating on top without deviating from the original recipe. I sprinkled Biscoff crumbs on the carefully piped cream that framed my sloppy handwriting: Feliz Viaje a Filipinas, Chicas!
It tasted good by the pool while everyone got their own portions. It was creamy, rich, and soft; just as I remembered. A bittersweet farewell. Until clean up, when storing the leftover cake led to half of it falling face-first on the lounge chair, and all we could do was laugh helplessly at the suddenly inedible mess.
The party was over; it was time to come home. Except now, with a friend to show around my half of the world.
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Before I moved to Spain, birthdays were more predictable, and my friends stayed the same. I was raised Catholic and went to mass every year before any party in my honour, even after school. With my family, where we were going for dinner still provided mystery over the years, depending on the mood and everyone’s availability, but there would always be candles to blow on a cake with my name on it.
There was a compromise to be had between the celebrant and their guests on which type of cake to buy for the party. If I ordered a carrot cake or strawberry shortcake, it wouldn’t have been enjoyed by everyone and was therefore a waste of money —favourites be damned. My parents raised six children; food waste was typically avoided, and group meals were the staple, from high-end restaurants reserved for special occasions to our local fast food, all to keep us within budget. Safest bet as it may be, I wasn’t a fan of chocolate cake after watching that scene from Matilda (1996) when Miss Trunchbull force-fed it to Bruce Bogtrotter in front of the whole school. That also cemented in me a distaste for gluttony as seen in the likes of Mukbang videos on the internet. Cheesecake is safe, a worthy opponent for my lactose intolerance. A beautiful chiffon cake with mocha frosting or anything like vanilla buttercream would be the perfect middle ground.
I have been away for almost two years. Some close friends have turned into strangers, and new friends live where I used to call home in various places across Spain, from Seville to Zaragoza. I came back changed, inevitably.
I carry a feeling akin to a confusing strain of homesickness wherein I know I am home, but somewhere in the Mediterranean and Atlantic exists a place where I also belonged, for a time. I speak a third language, I am afraid to lose and carry the tumultuous history in between; guilt and nostalgia over the space both cultures occupy in my heart. I struggle with where to place myself once again.
I am turning 26 this November, and the only thing certain this time around is that I won’t have la tarta de San Marcos. Everything else hangs on a balance, a string of choices I’ve been avoiding, and a birthday wish heavily pondered upon at yet another chapter of my life.
Cake is also a testament to friendship. It transcends cultures and brings people together. A kindness.
In the two weeks Macarena and I travelled along Metro Manila and Northern Luzon, we had time for cake. We were at a local café, and it wasn’t her birthday, but we ordered a Mango Bene for her to try. She was enamoured by the tart sweetness of mango perfectly sliced on top of cream, the meringue inside a texture entirely different. I ate like it was my first time, too, because it had been so long. Sitting with her and my partner, J, I felt fine; I was in the right place.
What resonated was that feeling of belonging, what I once lost and continue to find.
