A Not So Simple Cake

Note: This story contains sensitive content, including loss of life and mention of knives and cutting.

1. First get a bowl. Not the bowl Grandma gave you that time when she called you in the kitchen with her cane in hand, and asked you to get it from under the cabinet, the one you thought was not even a cabinet but just a false panel because no one ever opened it. Not that bowl, which has been superglued again and again until the glue cracks are a new pattern on the blue and white chinoiserie. Blue Willow, she called it before she gave it to you as a parting gift, a thing to remember her by.

No not that bowl, but instead grab that old stainless one with the scratches where little Deb one put her tiny fingers to lick out the last tasty bits, and where her tongue finally made its way, the same tongue that babbled Mama before Dada and made Aiden so jealous he refused to do night feedings for a whole month but you were happy anyway.

2. You’ll need spoons too. One of the big ones with the dots around the edge, which Aiden gushed over when you were newly married and giddy with picking out silverware and kitchen appliances and..ahem…bedsheets. While you’re at it, take the set of measuring spoons out, too, and the measuring cups, even though they are dented and remind you painfully of the day you were practicing baking cookies for Daddy’s birthday but he never came home and you didn’t know until the weekend about the tragedy on the B line when you and Orson took it to piano class with old Mrs. Levy and she called you meshugenah and sent you home early where you found Mama sobbing under the covers.

3. 2 sticks of butter. I know you want to cut off slices and eat them off the knife like Daddy used to and now Orson, with no one to tell him he’ll cut his tongue, now does but would never let his cherubic Harper and Taylor try it and anyway Anna would cut off his tongue first just to prove the point.

4. 2 large eggs. Preferably brown, like the ones at Mary’s, in the coop she has out back on that big ranch by herself out west, where Aiden used to play and ride horses and do other farm boy things you cannot even imagine.

5. Salt. Just a pinch, because Mama, and Grandma, believed in the power of salt to fix any dish, especially the saltiness of thousand year eggs, and black bean sauce and definitely save some extra to throw over your shoulder to ward off evil spirits the way Grandma did when we came home after Daddy’s funeral.

6. Vanilla. The scent of the new organic powder Deb now uses on her little one’s sweet bottom, and when you hold the soft head against your neck you feel the familiar prickle in your breast of milk that’s not there, and you inhale the memory of his mother who was also so impossibly small, and of the possibility of the other - the one who was never named, and whose loss left you crumpled in piles of vanilla scented baby clothes that you would send to the Salvation Army covered in tears.

7. Sugar. Because sweetness. Because pain. Because the grains of minuscule crystal diamonds in your tongue are so precious these days, and because they make Aiden smile as if he remembers you still, but he doesn’t, he hasn’t for a long time, and you have come to accept that even sweetness is bitter, and the bitterest things can have a rare morsel of joy within.

8. Milk. How it flowed from your chest, how many gallons must you have drunk and poured and mixed and turned into yogurt and poured down the drain spoiled and stirred into tea and coffee and pumped and bottled and frozen and lamented and forsworn, even, when you thought Deb was lactose intolerant. Now it’s simply milk, and you’ll have to buy more because the paltry pint you keep in the fridge for your own lonely meager uses won’t be enough, and the remainder will taunt you until you take it over to Mr. Kahill, who is handsome and smiles at you but knows your heart still belongs to Aiden in the nursing home.

9. Baking powder. Mysterious stuff you never bothered to look up to see what it was, really, except to ensure it was aluminum free, but why do they even put aluminum in it in the first place, and what does it do to cakes to make them rise, rise, the way your heart soars when you see Aiden, or Deb, or Orson, or your grandkids or grandnieces and nephews, even Anna though she cannot bake because she does care, and rise rise the way you imagined Daddy, and later Mama, did up to heaven.

10. Mix. Aim for wet together and dry together first. But the fact is that tears of regret moisten the dry before you are done mixing, and the wet is full of the splashing joy of children in boots, so they are the same anyway, and you might as well mix it together all at once, lumps and all, until your arms are tired and you are not sure if what you are making is a cake or a penance.

11. Use a greased pan. One that is well-greased with the lubricant of your arthritic bones, of the elbow grease you’ve long spent, of the oil of pores that sweated over the small stuff, and then had them pulled from your stubborn fingers. Grease it well, rub back and forth until you are worked free.

12. Pour in the batter. Pour it all in. You know, the times you screamed at Aiden because he couldn’t remember a simple thing like putting gas in the car and you should have known what was coming even then, shouldn’t you?  Put in the I hate you I’m glad you’re leaving you said to Orson and he didn’t say anything but then he went off to college and you slept in his room until he came home for Thanksgiving. Put in the ways you slammed the door to your room and cried and Mama sighed and Grandma smiled. You did the same when you were Mama and then Grandma. Don’t worry about smoothing it down, like all things it will do that itself in time.

13. Bake. 350 degrees. Hot enough to make the chemicals react and fizz and release the bubbles. Hot enough to let steam escape, and let your worries escape, too. Hot enough to kill germs and yeast and also shame and guilt and sorrow. Hot enough to inactivate enzymes, inactivate the pain, inactivate the swirling thoughts. Hot enough to let things caramel or and sweeten and brown, for all things past, present and future to be coated in a delicious golden crust.

14. Cool. These are your last days, so chill out. Cut a slice when Deb comes over to tell you Aiden is no longer breathing, and you drop the plate but aren’t surprised and there is sweetness in your mouth and also crumbs. Cool it when the grandkids ask where’s Grandpa and you remember your own Grandma and Mary and Mama and Daddy, and Deb and Orson sit by you, their damp hands holding yours. Blow on it and let the breath out, it is nearly your last. Cool it so much you ice it. 

15. Cut and serve. Everyone will get a slice, a piece of you. You give Anna the bowl, a hopeful gift. Deb receives the measuring cups, because she is too measured sometimes, but always just right. You leave the measuring spoons to the angelic twins, because spoons are better than knives anyway. The greased pan goes to Mr. Kahill, who will read too much into it but smile every time he bakes. And Orson, your partner in crime, gets the prized knives, which you rarely used anyway because they were too scary for many reasons, but now he can cut his tongue and you will bite yours. Watch everyone fill their bellies and hearts. 

16. Wash your pans. No no. Don’t bother. Others will bake now, and they can clean up your messes.