Grandma's Cheesecake

Graham Crackers, crumbed

Butter, melted  

Sugar

Salt

Cream Cheese

Sugar

Sour Cream

Vanilla

Eggs (three)

The fluorescents overhead buzz. I picture a thousand bees raging, beating against the thin, frosted plastic, begging to be free. They would storm the metal-shelf lined aisles, tearing apart packages to get to the sweets within, and terrorising the people pushing carts, the bees angry they should be locked away from such precious and plentiful treats while we come and go with ease.

An older woman catches my eye as she walks by, pushing a walker balanced with the bare necessities: milk, bread, and butter. I wonder if that is all she can afford right now, whether or not her pension has hit her account for this fortnight. She glances back, her wide grey eyes set behind thick purple frames that somehow compliment the woman’s green knitted sweater. This woman can handle herself, yet here I am staring at shelves of eggs, imagining a swarm of resentful, jealous bees.

Do I need eggs for cheesecake? Probably not. I pull out the list from my pocket, quickly scrawled on the back of a fuel docket. Three eggs. I look back to the shelves: cartons of six, twelve, and eighteen. I wish it were possible to buy individual eggs. I grab the smallest carton, free range, and imagine a three-egg omelette filled with diced tomato, corn kernels, rocket, grated cheese, and finally topped with store-bought salsa. I see it on a plate before me, a stoneware plate, olive green with light grey speckles, the kind I would buy for myself if I bothered to move on from the mismatched set I have collected over the years from second-hand stores and garage sales. The eggs will go rotten first, before I make an omelette. The carton will sit forgotten in the back of my fridge. In a few weeks’ time, possibly months, sometime when I am low on groceries. I will find the rotten eggs, think to throw them out, and then leave them in the back of the fridge for a few more weeks until I finally throw them away.

What else; what else. I check the list. Sugar. I stare at the writing, my own, trying to remember the recipe—was it white sugar, raw, or caster? The packages line the shelf, all matching perfectly in size, smaller packages on the higher shelves, larger on the lower, all beneath the buzzing bee lights above. For each type of sugar, the packaging colour changes—pink, yellow, and blue. Blue seems appropriate: caster sugar. I set it in the red basket along with the eggs and move further down the aisle to the small bottles of vanilla.

What is the difference between vanilla extract and vanilla essence? Maybe I am not ready for this. I still taste the charred chicken nuggets I ate for dinner last night. The older woman in the green knitted jumper and purple frames turns into the aisle: she has added yoghurt to her small pile of goods. She eyes me again, catching me with my face screwed up and the taste of burnt bread crumbs in my mouth. The recipe does not specify, and vanilla essence is cheaper.

I move past the woman, and she glances to my basket, smiling. I wonder if she is recalling memories of baking with her kids, her grandkids—licking the batter from her fingertips, the smell of sugar and warm spices from the oven. My spine tingles as I step out from between the food-lined shelves, small bumps raising on my arms. I search the refrigerated shelves before me, looking for cream cheese, butter, and sour cream.

Finally, I need crackers. Well, crumbs… well, crackers to turn into crumbs. I check the laminated card hanging at the end of the closest aisle: biscuits and crackers, aisle four. I trail the aisle ends, passing sale-labelled packages of food about to expire and specialty items of all manner: stuffed bears, manicure sets, and waterproof mascara. I pause and place a tube in my basket.

In aisle four, I linger by the Oreo packets. They are not what I need right now, and I really should limit the sweets considering I am about to make a cheesecake. I look around: shortbread, chocolate crèmes, and milk arrowroot biscuits. I taste the arrowroots, their dry, crumbly texture lessened by the butter my grandmother always layered on them. The butter would be creamy and strong, and the otherwise plain biscuits became a tantalising treat. I blink. Hard. I drop a box of Oreos in the basket, the value box with two packets, and see the graham crackers for the cheesecake crust on the bottom shelf. I walk up the aisle quickly, eyes avoiding the shelves, instead focussing on my shoes. I need new flip-flops. These ones are starting to wear—a small tear in the rubber, stretching out from the hole where the strap goes through the sole, threatens to tear further and further each time I step.

At the front of the store, only two registers are open. Behind the first sits a middle-aged woman, her dyed-red hair roughly drawn back into a bun that is beginning to fall down. After every two or three items she scans, she swipes strands of hair from her face, and three people with towering carts stand waiting for her to ring them up. A young boy staffs the second register. From his fresh eyes and eager pace, this is clearly his first job. Five people wait for him to scan their purchases, but their groceries only fill baskets or are few enough to carry. I line up behind a tall man, muscles bulging beneath his shirt, the lines causing a foreign landscape that I picture the swarm of angry bees traversing, racing up and down the tall man’s back. I watch the fabric rustle and shift over the bulges as he moves from foot to foot. Clutching three bananas and a jar of Nescafe Blend 23 in the crook of one arm, he checks the time on his phone with the other.

Someone taps my shoulder. I turn and see the woman in the green-knit sweater and purple-framed glasses smiling up at me. Her walker now features mandarins, Twining’s English Breakfast tea, and two toilet paper rolls individually wrapped.

               “Are you making cheesecake?” she asks.

               “What?”

She gestures to my basket.

               “Oh; yes.”

               “My grandson loves cheesecake. I always make one when his mother brings him to town. And it’s such an easy treat to make.” Her smile extends through her voice, warm and inviting, and the wrinkles on her face stretch tighter. She looks younger, youthful in her joy and fond memories.

               “My grandma would make them for us too,” I reply.

               “How lovely! I’m sure she could help you make this one just right.”

               “I hope so,” I respond, thinking of the recipe card sitting on my kitchen bench, written in my grandmother’s hand, the edges torn and worn, and the card face covered in a thin layer of flour and thick batter stains. I think of that recipe card, old and once lovingly kept in a box full of matching card-stock, cards I used to flick through each time I visited my grandmother’s home when she would ask me what I would like to eat. I think of that card now resting out of place in my small and cluttered kitchen, a hand-written note attached:

Clara. Grandma would want you to have this. See you on Tuesday. Remember the flowers. Love, Mum.