THE PERFECT CAKE

 

Baking is an art says the aesthetic baker.

It is a science notes the expert.

Any fool could bake a cake, said the book I read the other day.

But you see, I could be a fool, but an artist and a scientist all at once.

So I choose to be those while I whisk my way to the perfect cakes.

I seek love, I make memories, I look back at simpler times that made me feel exotic as a child.

because you see, baking was an uncommon art then, my mother practiced.

She was making sure things could thicken up for the best, rising up to the occasion to raise her kids.

They were plain yellow or dark brown, date sweet or tangy when pineapples were in season.

Hidden right above the shelf, half-covered, still warm,

waiting for the hungry us to climb up, grab the tin with the ends of our uniform shirt and call it a day.

The bowl would be left with the last dollop of batter saved for us to lick clean,

the doors of our room latched because the old round oven would be still warm.

She baked till they made way to the places I stayed,

my suitcase smelling heavenly than our kitchen right after the bake.

She baked till I said I shall give it a try when I tried baking memories for her.

They weren't just plain yellow or dark brown or marbled anymore.

Chocolate, ganache, buttercream, and the glamorous other frostings were whipped up.

The stories of cakes with sugar roses that excited her as a child came in handy, as she licked the thick frosting just to say that the sugar was still grainy.

As I waited for it to be perfect just like my mother's,

our kitchen still felt exotic, memories gently folded in like the batter.