frosted carrot cake

She ties the strings of her apron while glancing across the tabletop in front of her.

The carrots have been carefully, and finely grated, resting patiently in a bowl of their own.

The flour, sugar, oil, and spices have all been measured, ready to be combined to form what she hopes to be a masterpiece, just like grandma’s.

She preheats the oven. She greases the pan.

Into her grandmother’s ceramic bowl, she adds the flour, the baking soda, salt, and spices.

In a larger bowl, one she received recently as a wedding gift, one she hopes to use as often as her mother and grandmother used the other ceramic vessel, she mixes together the eggs, the oil, the sugar, and the vanilla prior to folding in the garden fresh, grated carrots.

Then, the older vessel’s contents join those of the newer bowl slowly. And, as she folds in the dry ingredients, the symbolism isn’t lost on her, watching the contents leave the worn, older bowl, adding stability and flavor to the contents of the newer bowl to create something truly amazing.

She mixes the batter before pouring it into the pan to bake. And then, while her new home fills with a familiar fragrance, after washing the old and new vessels, she chooses the new bowl to mix the sweet and delicious frosting.

It’s her turn now to perfect the confectionary topping, after all, she’ll soon be privileged with teaching her new daughter how to compose this family favorite.

She peers into the bassinet smilingly before removing the cake from the oven.

The frosting eagerly awaits its sweet and spicy companion for a mere hour or two.

The smooth knife holds large mound after large mound of the fluffy confection until there’s more frosting on the cake than in the bowl.

She turns the cake with each spread of the knife until every inch of the light brown surface is covered. And, inside her stomach turns as well, nervously awaiting matriarchal approval.

The drive isn’t all that long, but it seems like an eternity as she’s waiting to see her sweet Oma.

As she pulls in the driveway, the front door is open, a mere screen and a few wooden slats closed upon the frame.

A tiny figure peers from the doorway, happily waiting to hug her precious granddaughter and her new, equally precious, great-granddaughter.

They embrace, and introductions are made between the oldest and youngest in the family.

“Darling, she’s perfect!” “Yes, Oma, she is.”

“I see you’re carrying something else as well,” Oma curiously states.

Isabella breathes in deeply, “Oh Oma, your house smells amazing! It has always smelled the same since I was a little girl.”

“Your grandfather’s favorite roast, always medium roast, always made on the stovetop. I prefer a darker roast, but sometimes you compromise on such things in a marriage, and sometimes you continue on in those little things even after your life’s love has long since passed.”

“Well, it smells wonderful...so rich, so inviting.”

“Yes dear, and it’s wanting to be enjoyed alongside what you’ve got stashed in that cake carrier.”

They both share a laugh, Isabella’s laugh more nervous than that of her grandmother’s.

“What’s the matter, what you have got in there?”

“Oma, this was my first try all on my own, but...it’s your recipe.”

Oma brings out two white, slightly stained, worn coffee mugs.

Isabella reaches into the cabinets and brings out two dessert plates.

She cuts a slice of cake for her Oma, then one for herself.

They each take a bite of the moist but dense, sweet and spicy cake. The frosting still glazes over the fork as it comes to a rest on the plate.

Oma grins before gripping her warm mug with both hands. She sips the hot, bold, and rich brew.

She can see the anxiousness all over her granddaughter’s face.

“It’s better than mine, you know. First try, huh?”

Isabella beams and hugs her grandmother tightly. “You really think so?”

Taking another bite of the delicious, spicy, and sweet carrot cake, then another sip of the warm, bold coffee, she grinningly replies, “yes, I really do.”