Of Cakes and Soup

TW: murder/suicide

           The morning light breaks through the curtains in thin strips that illuminate the granite kitchen counter. The remaining light bounces off the eggshell-colored walls to create an even light in the room. The house is quiet expect for the click of the wall-clock. I flip one of the three switches on the wall, activating the low hum of the ceiling fan.

           I walk to the oven and turn it to 350 degrees to pre-heat. Reaching down into the floor cabinet, I grab a mixing bowl and carry it to the counter on the opposite side of the room. My journey across the checkered tiles is short lived as I reach overhead and pull out a box of cake mix. I place both items on the counter next to the already gathered measuring cups, milk, eggs, oil, and cake pan.

I reach into the drawer next to me and pull out a pair of scissors, they easily glide through the thin plastic of the cake mix. The plastic bag charged with keeping the mix safe from moisture and whatever else may present itself as a threat. Instantly, the sweet aroma fills the air. Notes of vanilla waft towards the ceiling, pleasantly lifting my spirits along the way. I smile as I am transported to fond memories. I was never destined to be a baker; I find it too stifling in its need to be exact. I prefer cooking to the beat of my own drum, following my heart’s desire. She enjoyed baking though, the restrictions giving her the structure and rigidity she so loved. I do not remember when we decided to truly celebrate our friend-aversary, but, ever since we did, Jess insisted that we take turns baking the cake. I guess I can make an exception to the schedule.

I refocus on the cake mix in my hands and pour it into the bowl causing a plume of flour dust to rise. Next, I take a measuring cup and provide the correct amounts of oil and milk, my movements rehearsed and familiar, flowing like a ballet. Finished stirring, I pour the mixture into the greased and floured pan. I slide the pan onto the rack and release it ever-so-gently. Shock waves ripple as the batter settles into place, but nothing spills. Perfection. I close the oven door and look out of the window, a sense of accomplishment growing inside of me. The leaves announce their impending death through the magnificent shades of red, orange, and yellow. The squirrels chase figments of their scattered minds while the birds diligently search for nourishment in the ground, their beaks pecking the earth in succession. The grass also signals its demise, the green fading and turning into beige. It is funny how life and death are all around us. Before my thoughts can venture deeper down the rabbit hole, I turn my attention to the next task at hand and retrieve blueberries from the freezer, grabbing a pot along the way. I reach on my tiptoes to grab the sugar jar, bringing it safely to the counter with a soft thud. Plink, plink, plink. The blueberries form a percussion chorus as they enter the pot. I sprinkle in a dusting of sugar and watch for a moment as the white crystals slowly turn a purple blue before venturing to the sink and giving the concoction a splash of water. Satisfied with the contents, I place the pot on the stove and wait for it to simmer.

I place the jar of blueberry sauce next to the now cool cake. Once upon a time, I used a timer for the cake, but my sense of smell has since become my timer, I guess she actually did teach me something. I use a spatula to spread a layer of vanilla frosting before swirling in dollops of the thickened blueberry sauce. Satisfied with the results, I secure the lid on the carrying container and grab my keys.

The gravestone reads: Jessica Ovnel, loving daughter and friend. So far, it seems this cemetery keeps their grounds well maintained. Although, I guess it has only been a few months, time will tell if my assumption is true. I set down the cake container and cut two slices. One I place on the ground, one I take for myself.

“I wanted everything to be the same, but I’m not a huge fan of visiting cemeteries at dark, so waiting until night wasn’t an option,” I say before pausing a taking a bite of cake. Although the recipe is the same, it does not taste the same.  

“I made sure to put blueberries on top. I did them the way you like them. Not too much sugar, but still enough that it isn’t tart. I know it’s not my year to make the cake, but I didn’t think you would be feeling up to it,” my thoughts trickle off into silence.

“This really sucks,” I say as a tear rolls down my face. My words become choked, and my mind starts to go dark with thoughts of loss and grief.

“Sorry, I promised myself I wouldn’t cry,” a smile fights to come across my face at my next thought, it is by no means large, but it is visible, “and to think, you never got a chance to apologize for never returning my copy of Mean Girls.” To my surprise, a tiny chuckle escapes. For a moment, I am transported to the past, to our days of laughing together until our sides hurt, but a glance at the headstone brings me back to reality.

“It all seems so trivial now though,” I say as sadness washes over me.

The walk back to my car is somber. I place the cake carrier in the passenger seat, where Jess should be, and put on my seatbelt. I remember the last ‘girl’s night in’ meal I would ever make. The last time I would get to cook my best friend dinner. The same tomato soup I made a thousand times before. The same roasted tomatoes pureed to perfection, fresh basil, garlic, and salt, left to simmer for a few hours. Of course, what is tomato soup without grilled cheese? I picked smoked gouda to be the star of the show. I toasted the bread in a buttered cast iron skillet, making sure the bottom slice was crisped to perfection before placing the cheese slices along with the second slice of bread. Then, I waited until it melted to the point the cheese oozed from the sides, bubbling as it touched the searing hot pan. The delightful smell still lingers in my mind.

           It was a perfect meal. The tomato soup being the best choice for grilled cheese. The acidity of the soup cutting through the richness of the cheese. The salty and tangy combination of tastes. The balance of textures. And, of course, its strong flavor having the ability to perfectly mask any traces of rat poison.