Home-baked Memories—No Frosting

It was in reaching for the cake spoon

that divisions between the remembrances began a recipe

I was not considering.

Were there hundreds of cups of flour measured over time for Mama

or hundreds of handholds after accidental burns, cuts, and scrapes on the kitchen floor and kindergarten playground with only shyness holding back tears?

Did I take my time reading the method carefully for the home economics test?

Checking my answers as I followed the steps in proper sequence,

mixing everything thoroughly

so the cupcakes were at least edible?

Never once did it occur to me

that cake spoons were anything else but wooden

and mixing bowls anything else but big and breakable

as years rolled by seeing spoons used as pointers and punishment

combining delicious treats on the other side of delicate derrieres.

We still licked utensils when mixing was done

with that unique unequaled exuberance that only children have.

The overwhelming smell of ‘still baking’

seducing all who ventured too close.

Remembering Frisky,

trusted black silken-haired canine companion

who let me sneak ingredients from the cupboard to mix,

like cream of tartar, milk, salt, and flour.

Sitting under the dining table and drinking my concoctions without complaint

as I did my best to imitate Master Mamas cooking

with endless supplies of wooden spoons.

It’s something how quickly the divide disappears

as I close the kitchen drawer and idle in time

contemplating the recipes for connections and

whether a cake spoon could ever be used for just making cakes.

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