Red Velvet Mini Cakes Recipe and How I Met My Love (Abridged)

I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart)

I am never without it (anywhere I go you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling)

I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet)

I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you

Here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)

by E. E. Cummings

I remember the day like it was yesterday — or at least like a vivid memory softened by time.

It had been a month since my final exam of first year. With a rare day off from my summer job, I finished my errands and headed to my aunt’s office for a lunch date. Living close to campus, transit, and the city’s livelier spots felt like teenage freedom; my roommate and I were in a kind of everyday bliss.

On the packed platform I paid my fare and descended the stairs. Crowds made me uneasy — I was small, easily jostled, and the thought of being pushed onto the tracks made me cling to a pillar for safety. When the train arrived I braced for the rush and was bumped from one body into another. Looking up to apologize, I found myself caught by a pair of unforgettable green eyes. He smiled a gentle, knowing smile, and I smiled back. We held that look for a long time even as the crowd carried us along. When the doors chimed, I realized I was on the other side of them. Mister Green Eyes was gone.

I panicked and scanned the crowd, but convinced myself to pull out my book and settle down. Just as I was about to lose the moment to the final pages of The Alchemist, the doors reopened and there he was. For nine subway stops we traded shy smiles. Each time I looked up he smiled; I returned the gesture. It felt effortless, and with every stop I hoped he wouldn’t leave — while a quieter worry insisted I might be flirting with danger. My nervousness grew until he picked up a book, perhaps to hide his own nervousness.

When my stop was announced I considered turning around to say something — anything — but nerves kept me silent. To my surprise, he got off as well. I hurried toward my aunt’s office, climbed the elevator, and froze when I saw him scanning the mezzanine. For a moment I thought I should go about my day, but an inexplicable tug made me press the lobby button and head back down.

Our first words were simple: “Are you looking for someone?” I asked. “Yes — you!” he answered. I introduced him to my aunt, postponed lunch, and spent an hour in the park talking. Conversation flowed easily; it felt familiar in a way both of us later described as unmistakable. A butterfly landed on his shoulder during our chat and lingered — a small, magical moment that somehow sealed everything for me.

We rode the train together that afternoon and caught a movie. Over the next weeks he met my family and we shared picnics, swims, dinners, and museum visits. It truly felt like love at first sight and, honestly, it still does most days.

To celebrate, I made these mini ‘His’ and ‘Hers’ anniversary cakes — perfect for two. The lettering on the “His” cake was inspired by cookies I admired on a baking blog; the flowers were cut with a heart cutter from colored fondant, wired, and arranged around pearl stamens. I originally planned to write lines from the poem at the top of the post, but practical limits with angle and handwriting meant only one cake carried the message.

The red velvet recipe I used that day wasn’t my usual go-to; it was pleasant but slightly dry and not as vibrantly red as I’d hoped. Below I’ve shared my preferred red velvet cake recipe instead. The white chocolate ganache method I used has its own set of instructions and visuals if you need them.

I’d love to hear how you met your love — leave a comment below.