Angel Food Cake

Bill (Dr. William Kennedy) as Aimable the Baker in Capital University’s production of “The Baker’s Wife”

“If Bill knew that I was struggling to write this tribute to him, he would tell me that I was overthinking it by saying three words: Angel Food Cake.”

When someone important leaves us, we strive to make sense of it all. This manifests in as many ways as there are people. Feelings are different. Grieving is different. For some the words may come easy. For others, the words are too painful to form. For some of us, we surround ourselves with a flowing stream of memories: reliving moments that have been but will never be again.

On October 4th, I lost a good friend. A good person: Dr. William Kennedy. Writing that out feels wrong. Not the passing part (although that is only because I have come to terms that he is really gone), but the name. I only ever referred to him by his full name and title around other colleagues or, perhaps, when I was in trouble. For almost all that knew him, he was simply called Bill.

Bill was the type of person that if you knew him, then inevitably you had a story about him. He was the type of person that loved stories and perhaps never knew how central he was in many of our own. Each testimonial that I have read over the course of the past week has been filled with personal accounts of how this man meant or did something to help them. 

I have struggled to put words together for Bill. As much as the news was not all together unexpected, it still shocked me, nonetheless. I found myself in grief. I went to the woods to try to clear my head, only to be lost in memories. As days went by, I knew that I needed to put words together. I owed Bill that. He had done so much for me in my life. I must write something. A sentence here. A few words there. Nothing felt worthy. I thought, if Bill knew that I was struggling to write this tribute to him, he would tell me that I was overthinking it by saying three words: Angel Food Cake.

“Angel Food Cake” had become our shorthand many years ago for when someone (usually me) would overcomplicate something way past a normal, simple solution. It all started during my junior year at Capital University. I was assistant directing a production of Kurt Weil’s opera Street Scene. Assistant Directing, which in this case meant also doing props, stage managing, dog wrangling, babysitting, also playing a part in the show, dramaturgy, blocking; and the list goes on and on. I was stressed. Of the many hurdles that I needed to tackle was creating an edible ice cream cone prop with vanilla ice cream. The prop could not be actual ice cream (dairy products not being ideal for singing) but still consumable. I tried everything. The worst attempt was when I tried baking cornbread inside an ice cream cone. If you have thought of doing this, just don’t…trust me.

Eventually, for whatever reason I stopped to talk to Bill. It could have been one of a thousand reasons. I would like to say that it was to ask for an extension on a homework assignment, but I know full well that it wouldn’t have been. (I was one of those frustrating students that wouldn’t turn in journal homework assignments until the end of the semester.) Inevitably I told Bill of my problem, to which he looked at me with a look of wisdom and empathy and simply said “have you tried angel food cake.” My mind immediately swirled trying to figure out what ingredients were in angel food cake. “Just buy a cake from the store, get an ice cream scoop and scoop it into the cones.” I wish that I could have been in his shoes to watch me go through approximately eighty emotions in about a minute over this realization. After everything I had tried, everything that I had done, and it was as simple as a store-bought cake and an ice cream scoop.

Of course, he was right and, of course, it worked perfectly. It was the simple solution to a problem that I had classically overworked. From that point forward, anytime that I began to over think something, make it more needlessly complicated than what was necessary; Bill would just remark “Angel Food Cake.” And I would begin to look for the simpler solution.

This is my story, but it is not a unique one. Ask any former student of Bill’s, any former colleague, and they have at least one story they can share about a conversation that was held in his office. Bill taught us magic, but in many ways, he might have been an actual wizard. I only say this because it seems that everyone can share stories of spending hours talking to him. I’m not sure how with his teaching load and only having one office he was able to fit us all in. I can only ever recall a handful of times when he had someone else, he was waiting for. It just doesn’t seem possible that he had time for all of us, but of course, he did.

Sean P. Mette as Finian and Joshua Shipley as Og the Leprechaun in Finian’s Rainbow. Revised and Directed by Dr. Bill Kennedy.

I first met Bill in 2001, where through a series of true unfortunate events, I ended up being the titular lead in his new revised version of the musical “Finian’s Rainbow.” My first class with Bill was the next semester. He became my advisor in the next year.  Over the course of two decades, we would discuss and debate the circus, puppets, theatre, clowning, magic, and comedy. One of our classic debates was about who was the better Barnum: Jim Dale (his choice) or Michael Crawford (my choice). We didn’t always agree, but we shared our stories and I feel that each of us always wanted to hear more.

With all this mention of baked goods, I would be remiss, if I didn’t share the time when I almost failed Stagecraft because both Bill and the director of the show that he had written didn’t know what a snickerdoodle was. In our Stage Craft class, one of the lessons we were taught was that a prop didn’t have to be exactly what was mentioned if it looked close to what the script called for. For class, I was assigned to do props for one of Bill’s new plays “Bermuda Shorts.” Most people remember this show for the clever bar name pun “Tequila Mockingbird.” One of the props that I needed to get was about a dozen or so snickerdoodles. I knew what a snickerdoodle was and when I couldn’t find one, bought a box of pecan sandies instead. I thought, similar shaped cookie, similar color. All good.

The next day the world went crazy. I had heard that the director was livid about, of all things, the pecan sandies. (Bear in mind this is the same teacher that told me that things didn’t need to be exact.) What was worse, I was at risk of failing the entire semester because of a cookie. I had also learned that Bill was very upset with me.  I had been informed, through in direct means, that I had better have the correct cookie that night or that was it. Did I mention that this was all over a snickerdoodle? Yes, good, just making sure.

Not wanting to face the wrath of the director/professor, I skipped my Stagecraft class that day. Instead, I returned to the store looking for cookies. Knowing that there wasn’t a box of snickerdoodles, I asked the bakery if they sold any. Fortunately, they had just put some out. I bought two containers and brought them back to Capital. I went to Bill’s office (which of course was open) and said it was Sean. His tone was ladened with disappointment, tinged with some anger. Before he could say anything, I put the cookies on his desk. He looked at them in shock. Reading the label, which clearly said “snickerdoodle.” He paused and then simply said “they’re not round.” Slightly confused, I said that they were still a circle. “I thought they were shaped like a ball.” He called the director in. She too was under the assumption that snickerdoodles were spherical in nature. After looking at the clearly, non-spherical snickerdoodles, she only said “thank you for getting the correct cookies.”

This incident was never fully discussed again…unless I wanted to make a point that Bill was truly wrong about something in which I would only mention one word: Snickerdoodle. (Oh, and I did pass the class.)

This image from Bill’s production of Seussical was used as the image advertising the Theatre Department for several years. (Image features Amy Rittberger as Jojo, Nicole Corris as Gertrude McFuzz, Missy Aguilar as the Cat in the Hat, Sean P. Mette as Horton the Elephant and Doreen Jones as Mayzie LaBird)

I wish that I could share all my stories of Bill. I might share some more later, still, others I might keep to myself. I want to share at least one more. I can’t tell you exactly when this conversation took place, but I suspect that it was near the end of my senior year, perhaps even my last conversation as a student. We were talking and somehow the conversation eventually turned towards discussing my future. Truthfully, I don’t know what question led into this conversation, but I do remember what was said.

“I’m not sure, but I think that it would be great to have a life like yours.”

“You don’t mean that.”“I do! You get to teach at a university. You get to direct shows. You get to write. That’s great!”

Taking a moment to consider his words, Bill looked me in the eyes and said, genuinely, “I would like you to have something more than that.”

Bill wanted me to have a better life than his. We all live with the regrets of the choices that we did or didn’t make. I never asked him what regrets he had, but I felt like I might have known some. We weren’t that different after all.

In 2018, after one of Bill’s health scares, I was asked to teach the course on puppetry he was no longer in a position to teach. I was already scheduled to be a guest speaker the first week of class, but agreed to stay on for the semester. At the time, I had a full-time job at a non-profit theatre, was playing a small part in a semi-professional production of Willy Wonka and was supposed to be writing a play that would be produced later in the Spring. However, Bill needed help. So, I made it work. That semester teaching was equally one of the hardest, yet most rewarding things I have ever done. I felt duty bound to give those kids a good education. And I did! I wanted to be like Bill.

Life will be different without Bill in it. I think that everyone that knew him will feel the same in one way or another. However, in the end, you will never be able to unweave his influence in our lives. And that, if you were to ask me, is for the better.

The last words that Bill said to me were “Thank you.” Thank you, my friend. I am going to miss you. Rest in peace. Angel Food Cake.

Dr. Bill Kennedy (1957-2021)