Don't Regretti. Eat Some Confetti.

Don’t Regretti. Eat Some Confetti.

James Whitley was the only woman in her graduating class — not from high school, but from J. Robert Clayton Technical Institute for Future Legal Professionals, which is a fussy way of saying the girl made it through a hellishly difficult pre-law program with flying colors and a severe caffeine habit.

Everyone assumed James would be off to law school by September, briefcase in one hand, ambition in the other. But James had a secret, and it lived in her kitchen. More specifically, it lived in her butter dish and her heart-shaped measuring cups and her worn-out, batter-stained apron that read "Bake It Till You Make It."

Her birthday fell on a Saturday that year, the kind of hot morning where the humidity comes in early and sits on your chest like a cat with something to prove. She invited a small gaggle of friends, classmates, and confused aunts to her backyard, decorated with paper lanterns, mason jar flowers, and a very large table that held exactly one thing: a three-layer confetti cake with frosting so thick it looked like a snowbank had fallen in July.

“Y’all know I don’t like surprises,” her Aunt Luanne said, eyeing the cake like it might explode.

“Well,” James said, hands on hips, “good thing I do.”

Everyone got a slice of cake — the kind that leaves colorful crumbs on your fingers and joy in your molars — and, curiously, a little envelope tucked under their plate.

James stood up on the porch, holding her lemonade like it was a gavel. “Now, before y’all finish chewing,” she said, “go ahead and open those cards.”

They did. And every single one read the same thing:

“Don’t regretti. Eat some confetti. I’m opening a bakery.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, the kind that falls over people when they were expecting law school announcements and get buttercream instead.

“Wait, you’re not going?” asked her classmate Brent, mouth still full of cake.

“Nope,” James said, smiling. “Turns out the only thing I like arguing with is a sticky dough and a temperamental oven.”

“You’re giving up the law,” Aunt Luanne said slowly, “for cake?”

“I’m not giving anything up,” James said, licking icing off her thumb. “I’m building something. With flour. And joy. And rainbow sprinkles.”

A pause.

“Well,” Aunt Luanne huffed, taking a second bite, “this is better than any gavel I ever bit into.”

From that moment on, it was settled. The confetti cake became legend, the slogan stuck like caramel on a hot dashboard, and Don’t Regretti opened three months later in a refurbished bait shop with pastel walls and a line out the door by noon.

Turns out, James wasn’t abandoning the law. She was just choosing a different kind of justice — the kind that comes with frosting and reminds folks that sometimes, the sweetest verdict is the one you make for yourself.

ORDER the ‘Don’t Regretti’ cake fine art print here.

READ more cake stories here on Substack.

COPYRIGHT 2007-2025 Patti Friday b.1959.