Lemon Cakes
Atlanta gives me just a reserved, thoughtful little smile when I, for once, confront her bluntly about my suspicion.
Then she drags me to the kitchen.
She wants us to bake a cake, of all things.
After such a weighty discussion, fraught with anxiety in my part.
Or did she somehow realise my state of mind and seek to alleviate it?
I feel both humbled and indignant, on that thought. `I am not a child, to be coddled so!`
Still, I help her prepare the ingredients and mix them into an admitedly nice-smelling batter for a “lemon cake.” We are occupied in our thoughts for the duration of the task, but thankfully it is not a tense or otherwise awkward silence.
And, as Atlanta draws the cake out of the oven, it is the turn of my palate and stomach to be grateful. – The steam that wafts lazily away from it smells savoury, sweet and sour, alike yet unlike the “milkshake” that I drank in what feels like an eternity ago. And, as I bite into a small piece of it despite the lingering heat, I find that the fragrance does not lie.
If only all fraught discussions ended thus….