Made with Love

   I place the sugar next to the rest of the ingredients. Milk and eggs, cold from the fridge, join them. Prepping the ingredients was a calming process, one I was familiar with. My feet slap down against the tile, echoing with each step. I preheat the oven. 350 as the recipe instructs. How to make a cake is handwritten in a curly font across the top. I almost laugh. What kind of pastry chef needs to learn how to make a cake? But this wasn’t any cake. Although I have them memorized by heart, I read over the ingredients. They were the same as always, obviously. I measure the dry ingredients, adding them to the stand mixer. The amount of times I had done this was too many to count. I brush off the spilled flour. Whisk together the wet ingredients. Eggs, buttermilk, oil, vanilla extract, and mayo. Yes, mayo as in mayonnaise. I could practically hear my grandmother. “Amara don’t skip that step,” Her voice scolding. I laugh softly at myself. I hated mayo. But it was an important step. 

“It helps keep the cake moist,” I whisper. I add the wet ingredients to the dry. Start the stand mixer. Stray sugar crunches unpleasantly beneath my feet. The mixer hums softly in the background. It was a soothing sound. One I used to fall asleep to as a kid on the floor of Grandma’s bakery. Her bakery was a magical place. My sister and I would spend summer days behind the counter helping her with pastries and cakes. She was always making up new recipes, each more delicious than the last. But there was one recipe which never changed. Tourists would come from all over the country to try. Grandma’s Original Cake. She held it above all others. Called it more precious than gold. I used to scoff at her for saying that. I guess I never really understood. But I was trying. I really was. 

   I don’t remember when baking stopped being fun. Maybe it was when I became a pastry chef and it became something I relied on for income. Or maybe it was way before that. When we had to shut down Sweet Sensations. The pretty pink sign being replaced by The Tooth Fairy Dental Office. Ironic. But after we had to shut down the bakery, things changed. And after what just happened, baking would definitely never be the same ever again. 

I stick a finger into the bowl, tasting the batter. It was the exact same. Memories come crashing down. Of me standing on my tiptoes to peek inside the ginormous stand mixers, begging to lick the bowl or at least the spatula once she was done. Grandma would be furious at me and my sister. “Don’t eat raw eggs!” She would exclaim, exasperated. But we would always sneak some. I stare at the bowl full of batter. If I wanted to, I could eat the whole bowl. But it wasn’t as fun when there wasn’t someone telling you not to. Sigh. I pour the batter into the cake pans. Put them into the preheated oven. Set the timer. 30 minutes, no more, no less. 

I slide to the floor, my back against the cabinet, face towards the window. A full moon shines bright against the night sky. I hold up the recipe, worn out from being folded and unfolded many times.

“Amara,” she said when giving it to me. “This was a recipe passed on from my own grandmother. Keep it safe. Learn it by heart. And maybe one day you can pass it on to your own daughter,” I laughed at the idea of having my own daughter. The night sky reminded me so much of her. We would lay together at night watching the stars, me , grandma, and my sister, Ariana. Sometimes Mom would join us. I bury my face into my knees, finally letting go. Finally letting the tears fall. I sob hard. Harder than ever before. She was gone. She was actually gone. 

Beep beep. I wipe my cheeks. My throat hurts from crying so much. I open the oven and smoke clouds my already blurry vision. Pull out the cake. It smells delicious. It looks perfect. I laugh through my tears. Who knew making a cake would be so hard? I made cakes on a daily basis. I’ve made this cake so many times, but it never really felt this way. I flip the cake onto the cooling rack. The clock on the kitchen wall says it's 2 a.m. I quickly whip up some vanilla buttercream, and plop some down on the cake. Spread it messily. I stand back to look. Definitely not my best work.

Losing Grandma was the worst. We got the news weeks ago. But it never really hit me until now. I hadn’t made Original cake in forever. Probably years. It was just so hard to do it without her. Alone. I may not remember when baking stopped being fun but I do remember when I found my love for baking. It was a very long time ago. And it was because of her. She taught me everything I knew about baking. 

I pick up a knife, pressing it into the cake, soft and moist. I cut out a slice and put it on a plate. I did it. I actually did it. A chocolatey smell wafts around the kitchen, encasing it in one big hug. Warmth creeps up my toes, and fills my heart. If only Grandma could see me now. If only. She would be so proud. I take a chunk of cake. The fork hovers in front of my mouth. But it feels so wrong to do this alone. And I wasn’t sure if I could do this alone. If anyone ever asked for the recipe of her cakes, Grandma used to say that her cakes were made with love. I never understood that. But I think now I do. This cake was the kind that needed to be shared with someone. Involuntarily my hand reaches for my phone and scrolls through my contacts before selecting one. She picks up almost immediately.

“Hello?” 

I listen, taking in my sister's voice. I wasn’t surprised she was awake at this time.

“Hey,” I whisper. “Are you hungry for some cake?”