To Bake A Cake

A Story by Skadia Trazon

A normal event and how much love goes into making food.

The day was good, a nice day off, I didn’t have to go into that stuffy office today. A cool breeze drifted through the window, a wonderful foreshadow of fall that would soon be with us. A cake would be perfect right now. I hoisted myself from the chair and scuffled over to the pantry. Next to the flour was a box of mix. My hand went for that and paused, I have all the time in the world. I then snagged the large bag of flour and placed it on the counter as I gathered everything else I would need for my mission.

With everything before me I pulled the biggest bowl I had from the cabinet and pulled out a one cup measuring cup. I was not about to dirty more than I needed to.

The back of a dull butter knife scrapped against the top of the measuring cup as every ingredient was leveled. Eggs were carefully cracked into the mix, and a lone egg shell had to be plucked out of the batter. My arthritis cramped my hand as I mixed the cake batter by hand with a fork. One minute went by, then another, and after three pain full minutes my art had finally come to life.

One pan should do just fine; a large square one will hold it all. Baggie over my hand, lard touched every inch of the pan. A dusting of flour would insure that it wouldn’t stick. All of the goo fit neatly into the pan, leaving plenty of room to rise up nice and fluffy. The oven beeped, all pre-heated, as I dipped my pan into its fiery maw. Looking at the clock I made a mental note of when to check on it.

Twenty minutes wafted by and it was time to check in upon my hard work. It looked great, smelled amazing, but when I tapped it, not quite done just yet, a few more moments and it should be just perfect.

My T.V. show was almost over anyway, by that time the cake should be ready. The final credits tracked up the screen and I rushed to my oven. Snagging a hot pad on my way, I excitedly flung the door open and pulled out the now finished cake. I turned it out to let it cool and my heart sank.

Two minutes too long and the bottom was burnt. Burt that couldn’t be covered with sickeningly sweet frosting. Burnt that meant all my hard work was for naught. With an angry shove the now burnt art, was being stuffed into the garbage can. Still warm, still burnt. The smell of cake still lingered and the taste was still being craved. I went back to the pantry, and grabbed the box of cake mix, only to start all over again.