It should be a banana flavored – mmm – something. She could almost taste it. A walnut flavor in the concoction and maybe cinnamon? She stared into space, cupboard door open and spoon in hand. She took a sip of coffee, then another, then a long gulp. It had gone cold while she had been lost in thought and imagination. Pulling a mixing bowl to the counter, she dropped the spoon in it with a clang,
emptied the cold coffee from her mug into the sink, and refilled it from the still-hot carafe.
What was she even thinking? It’s just that the year had been – well she didn’t want to think about what it had been. Hard; not a terribly descriptive word, but true. Long; another, because the year had behind it other not so great years. And now what would it accomplish for her to do this – little something – that had never held import to her? She sighed. She needed a win.
Did she even stand a chance in the bake-off? Long-time residents and new townsfolk freely joined in competition of original recipes in the small town annual tradition. She never had. But this year she did because this year, for the first time, she cared. Maybe she cared because her sister had taken second place last year, her mother had been first for more years than she could count, and her grandma’s and great grandma’s names were still known for their grand prize concoctions. Or maybe somehow, somewhere in the ether of thought, the importance of carrying on tradition, of knowing – not just from stories, but from experience – the gratification of pride in one’s own effort caught her attention. Maybe she finally was willing to put some skin in the game, so to speak.
She bit her thumbnail as she paged through an old recipe book. She grabbed a few more, in addition to her Grandma’s recipe box, and moved to a comfy chair. An hour later she was deep in concentration and contentment as she blended her original combination. If a sample of the batter meant anything, her Boston Banana Cream Cake with coffee-flavored ganache could be a contender. A generous piece with a glass of milk assured her she was right. Now to make a duplicate for the weekend’s contest.
“I loooved your bake-off entry!” Ginny exclaimed on their way out of church the following Sunday.
“Thank you. Your chocolate coconut cookies were great.”
Stella came up behind them. “I don’t know how you all come up with your ideas. Congratulations on taking first place. And your first time, too!”
“You know she comes from a long line of winners, Stel.”
“Oh. That’s right! Must be in the genes.”
She smiled. “I don’t know about that.”
Later, she thought over the weekend’s success. Winning wasn’t in anyone’s genes, was it? Was it more determination or creativity or was it something else? Fate? God? She thought of her great grandmother’s life – a person she’d never met. Though she’d had a hard year, her great grandma had more than one hard year. Maybe many. If stories meant anything, the woman worked her fingers to the bone. But she somehow had found the will and time to enter a happy little bake-off and not only won, but taken home more than one grand prize over the years. Why did she enter? What would she have become in different times? And did the hard times create something in her that led to creativity and determination?
She got up and took a bite of her entry straight from the platter. Whatever it was, wherever it came from, she was grateful she’d made the effort. Proud, even. She’d take the win.
Image: pexels-andrew-4264049-scaled.jpg
make a beeline for the cheeping sounds of chicks kept in a large trough under warming lights at the back of the store. As a young man, I found satisfactory clothes there and, when I was on my own, I bought the kind of food and drink a person can actually enjoy. Tools? For home and auto, just like an insurance commercial. Hunting and fishing supplies capped my needs. In fact, I’ve often thought everything I’ve ever needed can be found at the Fleet Farm.
I’d been moseying through the aisles, stopping too long at fishing lures and probably not long enough at propane. It was because I was gazing at the new fishing lure in my hand, that I ran smack into a customer at the endcap. She nearly fell, but I caught her; and we stood there for a split second locking eyes and sizing each other up. It was uncomfortable and a little exciting at the same time. I’m not sure she felt the same way.
That secret space;
turned myself completely around and reaching my destination after it closed. Fortunately, there was another auction nearby the following day, and I didn’t care to return home and risk a late arrival not to mention wear and tear on my truck. It was the first time I’d ever parked in the first space in a parking lot.
$15.00 and took them to my truck to see if there was anything of value. They held some pictures taken around the 1920’s I guessed, an old set of encyclopedias, an interesting variety of electronics, and a few things I thought maybe I could sell on FBMP.
