Oven-scent

(Disclaimer: Technically this story is about the last time a person smelled something, not the first, but I'd be interested to hear people's thoughts anyway.)

Her mother never would have approved if she were there, but Emma pulled the oven door open slightly to peek at the biscuits. The heat and scent flowed out together, and as they hit her face, Emma became six years old again. “Can I eat some now, Mama? Just a little piece?”

Watching as the first tray of biscuits was slid into the oven, Emma knew that she was unlikely to get what she wanted. Ever vigilant about the risks in uncooked eggs, her mother rarely allowed her a taste of raw dough. Even when she conceded, it was always a tiny piece. On this occasion, however, her mother had suddenly gasped, thrust the whole bowl at her without looking, and staggered out of the room with her head in her hands. That last detail had only come to her later, as in the moment she only delighted in her good fortune. How much of the dough could she eat before her mother came back?

This was Emma’s favourite recipe, an amazing collection of spices that baked together to make the best biscuits Emma had ever had. Better even than the biscuits Emma’s friend Sophie got from a special store in the city and claimed were the best ever. Emma knew her mother’s secret recipe were really the best. For now, Emma only got to watch her mother make them, but Mama had promised that she would be able to learn when she got just a little older.

Emma could hardly wait. As she ate the dough straight off the mixing spoon, she imagined how good it would be to be able to make it whenever she liked. She’d eat half like this, and cook half. Pausing to examine what was left in the bowl, she considered what to do if her mother didn’t come back soon and take the bowl back. Should she stop now, and let the rest get baked into proper biscuits, or could she dare to eat it all and ask her mother to make a new batch when she got back?

Putting the question aside, Emma kept digging the spoon into the mix, taking little bites to make it last. A crash came from the other room and her father shouting, calling her mother’s name. Emma ignored the noise. Papa was always shouting, and going to see why he was upset this time would mean less dough to eat. Now Papa sounded like he was on the phone. Picking up a piece of dough that had fallen on the floor, Emma continued to ignore what was happening in the other room. It wasn’t every day she got to eat Mama’s biscuits before they were cooked, and she was going to enjoy every bit until she got busted.

When the bowl was nearly empty and the scent of the first tray was filling the kitchen, Emma heard a siren outside. It got closer and closer, until it suddenly stopped. Curiosity winning over the desire to continue eating, Emma put the bowl on the table and pulled a chair over to the window so she could try and see what the siren was. The ambulance had just stopped in front of her house. As the people from the ambulance walked towards the front door, Emma got down from the chair to find out why they were here. Nobody was sick, were they?

Before she could get to the kitchen door, Mrs Watson burst through it and took her by the hand. Mrs Watson flicked the oven off with the other hand, then took her out the laundry door and into the yard. “We’re going to my house for a little while, okay? Your mama’s not feeling well and your papa is going to help her. You can play with my bunnies, how about that?”

Emma looked up, confused. Mama was just fine. They were making biscuits, and Mama needed to come and take the first tray out of the oven. Maybe make more dough, since she had eaten so much. She started to feel a little sick. It didn’t make any sense. Why couldn’t she go back and finish the biscuits? She wouldn’t eat any more now. They could cook everything else. Was she in trouble for eating so much? Then why didn’t Mama come and say something? Emma didn’t want to go and pat the stupid bunnies. She and Mama had to finish baking. Mama had to be fine. She couldn’t be that sick if they were just baking a minute ago.

Mrs Watson tugged on her hand and Emma obediently followed, too confused to do anything else. As they started walking up the steps of Mrs Watson’s house, she turned her head in time to see her father step into the ambulance. “Papa!” Emma screamed and pulled her hand away from Mrs Watson. She didn’t make it two steps before Mrs Watson wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her up. Holding her close, they entered the house together as Emma sobbed on Mrs Watson’s shoulder and imagined eating biscuits with her mama.

The timer went off, bringing Emma back to the present. That had been the last time Emma had seen her mother, an undiagnosed aneurysm suddenly bursting. The recipe had gone into a drawer, then packed up in a box with other things Emma’s father had thought she might want “someday”. Someday had ended up being last week, as he had finally made the decision to downsize.

Pulling the biscuits from the oven, Emma breathed in their scent, remembering. Her mother dancing in the kitchen to silly songs she’d made up. Laying on their backs in the yard, watching the stars until they got cold and went inside for hot chocolates and marshmallows. Giggling as they hid from Papa and scared him. Watching Mama as she measured the flour precisely, yet always seemed to “accidently” overflow the spoon when measuring the vanilla essence. Remembering how the biscuits her mother made had smelled just like these ones.

After carefully sliding the biscuits onto the cooling rack and turning off the oven, Emma picked up the phone. “Papa? I made Mama’s biscuits. Want to come over?”