Nothing brings my Southern family together, or rips it apart, more than caramel cake. Competition over which aunt brings the best caramel cake to our annual family reunion is ruthless, and, over the years, tears have been shed. It’s not pretty. Eating the cakes has become a political dance, with my aunts hovering overhead asking: “So. Which one do you like best?” This year, as we’ve done for 50 years, family and cake came together to celebrate the Fourth of July near Pensacola, Fla. Seventy-five people attended—and five caramel cakes.

If you’re not fortunate enough to have eaten caramel cake, you should know it’s a traditional Southern dessert made of caramel icing placed between and above as many as seven layers of cake. It’s incredibly difficult to make this icing. The preparation involves a candy thermometer, Blue Angels timing and divine intervention. Cocky amateurs have tried and failed, left only with burnt sugar permanently fused to a pan and some disappointed friends. Believe me when I tell you that you can’t do it.

The most shocking—and unspoken—part of my family’s competition is that nobody actually makes the cake they bring. Rather, the year before each reunion is spent scouring local bakeries, and each family’s reputation rests on its local baker’s shoulders. The baker in Montgomery might never meet the baker in Charleston, but they compete annually. This is not to say that my aunts don’t actually bake—but their homemade fruit cobblers and pound cakes will not be judged. They will be callously pushed to the side.

To avoid any foul play, the caramel cakes are hidden until the competition begins. (In 1987 a cake, hidden under a chair, was stolen prior to competition. The thief left behind cake crumbs and a sideways chair so a dog would be suspected in the robbery. The cake, however, was later found hidden inside a washing machine. This mystery remains unsolved.) Following the proud presentation of the cakes, out come plates, forks and vanilla ice cream. Some side discussion takes place about Blue Bell versus Dreyer’s—still, nobody is silly enough to think ice cream actually affects the competition. Let’s get serious.

Each aunt has a gleam in her eye and the tension is thick. Aunt Emily lovingly places her Montgomery, Ala., cake before me. It’s six-layers tall, and I tip it on its side so that I can get the right balance of icing and cake in my first bite. I press down my fork, and the cake crumbles all over my plate. It’s immediately clear that the cake is too dry, and Aunt Emily is out of the competition as quickly as she entered it. I struggle to avoid eye contact.

Aunt Rebecca’s Jackson, Miss., cake is next. The cake is outstanding, but the shoddy icing dryly cracks, and her dreams are instantly dashed. It’s a crushing blow to a woman who had a solid winning streak in the mid-1990s.

Out of nowhere this year is Aunt Caroline’s Atlanta, Ga., cake. Not normally known for bringing a good one, her cake is the clear winner. It’s moist and delicious, with perfectly firm yet creamy icing. It’s as though the gods of sucrose oversaw the preparation, and each bite dances on my taste buds so marvelously that I almost cry when my slice is consumed. I contemplate having another, but I know better. Instead, I sit quietly, waiting to hear how the votes shake out.

I’m up. “It’s hard to say,” I say, stalling. “Oh come on!” Aunt Emily encourages. “You know you’re my favorite nephew.” This I do know, but her cake just isn’t the best this year. She sees the look in my eyes and gets nervous. “With great love and respect for everyone here, I’m going to have to go with Aunt Caroline’s cake,” I say, now knowing the one person who’ll be sending me a Christmas card this year. Aunt Caroline is ecstatic. The remaining votes are cast, and her cake is the clear winner. Unsurprisingly, all cakes all get at least two votes: one from the aunt, and one from the corresponding uncle who doesn’t want to sleep on the couch.

With the forks and plates in the washing machine, the ice cream in the freezer and the tears dried, we sit quietly in the living room. Fortunately, the fireworks across the lake give us something to look at. “You know, they were all pretty good cakes this year,” I say. But nobody hears me. Nobody except Aunt Caroline, and she knows that I’m lying.