Upside down
By: MandyBaggins
Casey came to me in a dream and said 'Pineapple upside down cake.'
So this is what came of it.
Every Wednesday Casey had somewhere to go.
Directly after school he would leave, rushing to put his things in
his green messenger bag and bolt for the nearest door to catch the
bus, knowing there was always about fifteen minutes to spare, but
he wanted to sit near the front to get off first.
He would sit and think about what he was going to say when he
walked through the open screen door. About what she would ask him,
how he would answer, where he would sit at the scrubbed wooden
table. Near the kitchen sink, or near the door? Maybe in the
middle, so he had within arms reach the milk jug and cake.
Cake.
Cake, that's why he would go there. She made the best cake,
especially her pineapple upside down cake. He adored her cake.
Especially that one.
She would only make it on special occasions, the recipe passed down
from generation to generation, still on its dirty worn piece of
yellow paper in neat, delicate writing that she told him once was
his great-great grandmothers. So neat and tiny, as if she was
afraid she wouldn't have enough room –or time- to tell how to make
the cake.
She had lots of other recipes, not all of them passed down. Some
were ripped out haphazardly from magazines, some new and some old.
But none compared to her upside down cake.
When the bus dropped him off, it was a two-block walk to her yellow
house with the wooden porch. Walking made him think more, about
what smells would be circulating the house, filling it with it's
wonderful aromas.
And what kind of cake would she have.
It was never the same thing repeated; sometimes it would be the
chocolate one with the coconut frosting, or the carrot cake with
its rich cream cheese icing. Maybe the white one with sprinkles on
the inside, a welcome surprise when she cut him a slice. Once, once
in a blue moon she would make her five-spice cake with ginger and
cinnamon and nutmeg, jasmine tea and a tangy orange glaze on top.
That one was good, but it never even came close to her upside down
cake.
The first time he saw her upside down cake he had thought it was
just one of her ordinary butter cakes, but when she flipped it, oh,
it was anything but ordinary. The pineapple was sour yet sweet,
fruity and tangy and the cherries were tart and so bright compared
to the pineapple. And the glaze, the glaze oozed of sugar and
dripped off the sides of the cake in an unorderly manner. He loved
the disorder of the icing, just dripping, oozing off the sides as
if it had naught but a care in the world.
His mother would make upside down cake. He would buy some from the
school bake sale, hoping for the same taste and texture, but it was
never the same. His mothers was always dryer, less moist and more
crumbly. The glaze always got cool and hardened into a tough sugary
mass before it got to drip. It was never the same.
So every Wednesday he would take the bus to her house, and walk the
two blocks, to eat her cake.
He prayed for the pineapple to make its appearance with the
cherries as he walked in.
By: MandyBaggins
Casey came to me in a dream and said 'Pineapple upside down cake.'
So this is what came of it.
Every Wednesday Casey had somewhere to go.
Directly after school he would leave, rushing to put his things in
his green messenger bag and bolt for the nearest door to catch the
bus, knowing there was always about fifteen minutes to spare, but
he wanted to sit near the front to get off first.
He would sit and think about what he was going to say when he
walked through the open screen door. About what she would ask him,
how he would answer, where he would sit at the scrubbed wooden
table. Near the kitchen sink, or near the door? Maybe in the
middle, so he had within arms reach the milk jug and cake.
Cake.
Cake, that's why he would go there. She made the best cake,
especially her pineapple upside down cake. He adored her cake.
Especially that one.
She would only make it on special occasions, the recipe passed down
from generation to generation, still on its dirty worn piece of
yellow paper in neat, delicate writing that she told him once was
his great-great grandmothers. So neat and tiny, as if she was
afraid she wouldn't have enough room –or time- to tell how to make
the cake.
She had lots of other recipes, not all of them passed down. Some
were ripped out haphazardly from magazines, some new and some old.
But none compared to her upside down cake.
When the bus dropped him off, it was a two-block walk to her yellow
house with the wooden porch. Walking made him think more, about
what smells would be circulating the house, filling it with it's
wonderful aromas.
And what kind of cake would she have.
It was never the same thing repeated; sometimes it would be the
chocolate one with the coconut frosting, or the carrot cake with
its rich cream cheese icing. Maybe the white one with sprinkles on
the inside, a welcome surprise when she cut him a slice. Once, once
in a blue moon she would make her five-spice cake with ginger and
cinnamon and nutmeg, jasmine tea and a tangy orange glaze on top.
That one was good, but it never even came close to her upside down
cake.
The first time he saw her upside down cake he had thought it was
just one of her ordinary butter cakes, but when she flipped it, oh,
it was anything but ordinary. The pineapple was sour yet sweet,
fruity and tangy and the cherries were tart and so bright compared
to the pineapple. And the glaze, the glaze oozed of sugar and
dripped off the sides of the cake in an unorderly manner. He loved
the disorder of the icing, just dripping, oozing off the sides as
if it had naught but a care in the world.
His mother would make upside down cake. He would buy some from the
school bake sale, hoping for the same taste and texture, but it was
never the same. His mothers was always dryer, less moist and more
crumbly. The glaze always got cool and hardened into a tough sugary
mass before it got to drip. It was never the same.
So every Wednesday he would take the bus to her house, and walk the
two blocks, to eat her cake.
He prayed for the pineapple to make its appearance with the
cherries as he walked in.