Parties Come in Threes (Full Synopsis)

In late 1900s middle America, the earnest and anxious Helen (Julie Andrews) prepares to receive guests for an occasion to be hosted in her home later that afternoon. A pot of coffee is on to brew, and Helen is working her way through a list of necessary things to buy and do before the guests arrive, crossing them off one by one with her favorite red pen as she accomplishes them.

She’s saved the most important task for last, as every part of its execution is a treasured moment of family-having and party-throwing. The Sock it to Me Cake. Requested at every gathering, birthday, and celebration, the cake’s presence is tradition and its consumption is ritual. Steady, expected, consolatory. The Sock it to Me Cake is not showy, nor exciting, nor especially savory. John (Errol Flynn) nibbles at the leftovers for days after the gathering with a glass of tea in front of the ball game, cheering quietly to himself. The grandchildren (Macaulay Culkin, Willem Dafoe, and Mindy Kaling) drag their fingers along the pristine icing facade and giggle, fingers in mouths, dirt on their knees. Aunt Paddy (Frances McDormand) calls a day before the gathering to request its presence on behalf of daughter Valerie (Maya Rudolph). Helen’s chest warms at the thought.

When most everyone has cleared out, Helen sits, alone, at the round table with the baby blue tablecoth by the back patio, legs crossed. Cigarette in right hand, left hand in her lap. Once everyone is fed, Helen retires to her spot with a cup of coffee and a slice of Sock it to Me Cake. She isn’t in the mood for the dinner she’s cooked. Helen sighs and Helen sits, and this is how it feels to live in this house.

At the store, Helen moves through the list strategically, geographically. Hawaiian Punch and 7up for the rainbow sherbet punch in the same aisle as the Dr. Pepper for Melanie (Molly Ringwald) and the sparkling black cherry soda water for John. Deli turkey and broccoli for the cheesy turkey rolls in the same section as the pimento loaf and pickled okra. Satisfied, Helen packs the groceries into the trunk of the LeBaron and drives home, convertible top down, dabbing her red lipstick in the rearview mirror with an old tissue.

It is only until the end of the party, when Helen retreats to her spot at the round table with the baby blue tablecloth by the back patio, legs crossed, cigarette in right hand, left hand in her lap, that she notices there's no cake to accompany the cup of coffee.

In the final scene, John sits across from Helen at the table and asks, No cake with your coffee tonight, Helen? Helen says she must've forgotten to pick one up at the store, what with all the preparation and everything. Her mind must've gotten away from her, she speculates. I don't quite care for that cake much anyway, John admits. Too sweet, he confesses. Helen laughs, looks out the screen door and sees the moon reflecting on the dirty lake. Hears the distant screams of children playing. The screams sound the way they always do. I don't quite care for it much myself, Helen agrees, blowing smoke into the dark. Helen sighs and Helen sits, and this is how it feels.

---

If you'd like to have some cake with your evening coffee, I've attached a recipe I've mined for you to make at home with relative ease. You could, though, pop over to Jewel and see if they have any left for you to pick up. Just don't forget.