Making a Cake - A Poem

By Anita Firebaugh



"Beater!"
"Bowl!"
My brother and I jostled for position
hearing that whirr of the mixer
knowing Grandma was baking.
Her mixtures of sweetness dripped
with egg and sugar, softness against
delighted pink tongues.

Not once did we ask.
We claimed.
Not caring if she might want a taste,
not knowing if she wanted to keep bowl
and beaters close and for herself.
The mixture was ours,
our alchemic summer delight.
She gave the gold over to us.
Willingly. Every time.

But I am old now, and I tell you the truth.
She wanted those beaters, my grandmother did.
She yearned to cover her fingers
with the batter coating the bowl sides,
stuff those sticky digits in her mouth,
taste that sugary sweet mix,
feel it ooze against her teeth.

She ached to break the moral code,
keep that treat for her own.
And when the government said
"Do not eat raw batter," she breathed
a deep sigh. Now she had a reason,
she could tell those grandkids
"You cannot eat the cake mix."
Another voice had said, "No."