Flour & Flowers

It started with a kiss as sweet as sugar.

The next few years after that were filled with two a.m. phone calls, summer road trips, and eventually, even popping the question.

But now here I was, in the kitchen all alone, covered in flour.

“To save time throw it in the mixer instead of mixing by hand” her recipe had stated. It would have been nice if she had mentioned to start the mixer at a lower speed. Or maybe there was a lid I forgot to put on it? Either way it was too late, the kitchen looked like a winter wonderland.

I guess I shouldn’t have expected her recipe to be completely idiot proof. You’d think that baking a cake is a simple enough task. Get yourself some flour, egg and sugar. Mix it together in a bowl, throw it in an oven and you’re done. Easy as that, right? I’m sure if I had asked her, she would have found a way to make the recipe even more idiot proof, just for me. But it was too late for that now. All I have are the well-worn pages of her handmade recipe book. Her notes were hard enough to follow, with multiple scribbles and doodles in the margins. As adorable as they are, they aren’t very helpful.

Well, I guess I can at least put the oven preheating while I clean up this mess. What did the recipe say again? Bake the cake at 950°F? No that can’t be right. Maybe that’s a four? That has to be a four. Bake the cake at 450° F? Yeah, that sounds much better. Gosh I’ll be lucky if I don’t manage to burn it at this rate. Well, fingers crossed, I guess.

I carefully place the cake in the passenger seat and buckle it in. I pull out of the driveway and make my way down Crescent avenue. Following the twists and curves of the asphalt until I get to the end of the road. The large iron gates, open as always, lead into the fenced off area. A stone sign in front reads “St. Warren Cemetery”.

The small cemetery was often quiet. The perfectly cut green grass swayed gently in the soft breeze. Anywhere else, the breeze and the silence could be seen as serene and peaceful, but here it felt cold.

I drive past rows and rows of stones in different hues of grey. Some were starting to show signs of neglect. It’s not too long before I find the one I came here for.

A bouquet of red carnations sits beside the gravestone. Your parents must have stopped by recently. I can already imagine you saying how the carnations are too fancy looking, with their excessive ruffles. Your grandmother was a little closer, leaving behind a bouquet of Marigolds. Her neat handwriting visible from a small card attached. Knowing you, you would have preferred a bouquet of daisies or honeysuckles. I chuckle imagining the two of them combined. What a colorful mess that would be. You would have loved it. I’ll have to make sure to specially order one for your birthday next year.

I take a blanket out of the trunk and lay it on the grass, still damp from the recent rainfall but I don’t mind. Taking a seat and emptying the picnic basket. I slowly cut the cake and setting it on a plate, one for me and one for you. I put it in front of the plaque.

“I brought you some cake, it’s your favorite recipe too.” I say into the empty air, not expecting any response.

I took a piece and toasted it to the sky before eating it. The familiar taste of your baking made my eyes start to water.

I guess the recipe was idiot proof after all.