The cast iron cook stove radiated heat
that coolish autumn morning, Mama's day
to bake. Remembering the ecstasy
she'd felt when Grandma brought in coal and set
about her work of feeding hungry men
who'd soon be tromping in from cotton fields,
my Mama figured out a system: start
by baking what produced the lightest smell.
She'd tease us: 'Don't look in, but on your way
out, tell me what you think is cooking.' She
would stand before the oven's glass while six
of us tramped through the warm and homey room,
our noses sniffing for a hint, a scent.
Today's aroma--we discussed outside--
seemed delicate. 'What's 'delicate'?
the youngest asked. 'A light, elusive, I-
can-almost-name-it-flavor, slightly sweet,
not strong and chocolaty like brownies are.'
An overalled, towheaded brother took
a guess. 'It's cornbread!' 'No!' an older child
retorted. 'Mama don't use sugar. Guess
again.' 'It's cake!' a third one added. 'It's
my birthday cake, I bet!' She clapped her hands.
I shooed them off to swings and sandbox, smug.
I wouldn't tell, but knew the smell. The child
was right: strawberry birthday cake for her.
~~ Pat Laster, Benton AR USA
c 2009 lovepat press
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