Mum makes marzipan from scratch just as she did when I was a schoolgirl, coming home from a blustery winter day. A light sponge cake coated with marzipan that melts in my mouth as she rinses dishes. A slice reveals the checkerboard pattern of strawberry and pink and buttery yellow cake inside.
Her hair is silver now, pulled into a severe bun. She still wears her wedding ring, even though the seat beside me at the table is empty. The same seat where Pap used to take his slice with a scalding-hot cup of hazelnut coffee. He’d read the paper, line by line, sometimes pointing out a headline to me, quizzing me.
Erin Jamieson
Battenberg Cake
Now, the only sound is the slow drip of water in the sink and my fork scraping against an empty plate. Mum glances over at me, touching her ring as if by instinct.
“Let me help you,” I offer.
“That’s quite alright. Enjoy your cake.” She excuses herself to the washroom, but I know better. I know she needs time alone, time away from the aroma of roasted almonds.
I set my plate in the sink and glance at the cake. She’s cut it with precision, as if for more important company. There’s still a photo of me on her fridge—a young girl, half in shadow, half in light. Now I have children of my own, children for whom I will pack up slices of cake. Children who cannot remember their Pap.
I slice a sliver of cake and crack open a window. The wind is bitterly cold, the garden dormant and dotted with frost. Distilled in time, as if I am young once again, and Pap will be here in a moment to quiz me about the daily news.
I toss the cake into fine crumbs outside. A bushy-tailed squirrel holds my gaze. It will carry these crumbs for nourishment, out into the world. The cake may always be Pap’s favorite dessert, but I know he would have smiled to see it making its way into the world.