My happy place.
Temporary, fragile.
My kitchen, my cakes.
Shutting out the scary world for a while.
Flour, sugar, eggs, butter, vanilla. They smile when you reach for them and place them on the table. We are ready to go, they announce with glee, welcome back, rejoice, you’re baking!
Indeed I am. The kitchen is my oyster. The oven is preheating, the pan is carefully buttered. The music is playing, the haze of comforting numbness is softening the impact of reality, the one that stings.
You are gone, and you and you and you.
I inhale the scent of cinnamon. Cakes don’t betray you. They will rise and perfume the air, be soft and tender and warm. They will taste like that is all you need to carry on. And sometimes it is.
Beat me, scare me, bite me, slap me, torture me, o unpredictable life.
I slip into my happy place and the aroma is marvelous.
I bake, therefore I survive.
(And I write, of course)
Recipe for this awesome, sweet, solid all-American Marble Pound Cake available here.
MaraWriter 