Warm Cakes like Hugs

I went to the kitchen and saw Mom was already taking out bowls for the flour, eggs, and other ingredients. She was a tough one when speed was in demand in the kitchen. Honestly, her hands worked like the clock, hardly making a mistake after so many years doing what she enjoyed doing. I started sifting the flour to make sure the mixing will not have lumps, and it is also good to avoid grains if it was so unfortunate. Also, it is a measure my mother insists I do. Mother beats the eggs until it mixed, by whisk in hand, even though we owned a mechanical mixer. I gave that fight up a long time ago when she gave a lengthy speech about how mechanical things could only do so much, while the hands would know the right time to stop. I argued the mixer does the same until she told me it won't do for her.

Mother's hands were in mixing dough, but she can't stop unless it cleared her hands, letting the flour from her hand mix into the dough she was massaging. Knowing very well I must do the same, I continued mixing, feeling the burn in my shoulders as we both stayed on the floor on our knees just to get the right mixture and grip.

My mother and I finished with the batter when she wiped her hands and she sat down, a little tired. I have been watching her work, and she had been killing it for almost thirty minutes. It was about time she tires out. I watched her give a little laugh, and then she smiled at me.

"What are you smiling about?" I said, looking strangely at her. Her wicked sense of humor should be tired of making an appearance now. I laughed to myself.

"I was thinking about you. You are so strong, my beautiful daughter. You amaze me. I don't think I could be like you." She said, as though she was realizing it only now. Or perhaps was she only saying it out loud?

"Oh, Mom. Don't say that. Now tell me, what are you going on about?" I said, waving my hand in front of me.

"Complete what you're doing, then we can talk." She blurted, trying to put two glasses of water on the table.

I quickly filled the three remaining pans with the right amount of batter, and soon they all graced the oven with its delicious smell. The cinnamon's mouthwatering freshness and the look of it rising feels so rewarding, it is all too good to refuse. Wiping my hands and my face, I plopped down and faced my mother.

"I want to tell you a story you might like." She smiled fondly at me, wiping a smudge from my cheeks.

"Okay, who is it about?" I asked eagerly to get into something good. Mother was always good at storytelling, from what I remembered. Settling down and getting comfortable on my chair, with folded legs, she began.

"There was this little girl. She was around five when she got her first box of wax crayons. Her parents presented her with a coloring book also for her birthday. She treasured it. Eventually, it took one month for the book to be finished, and she felt sad. All by herself, she got a great idea. If she can write on paper with lines, she can draw her own pictures on paper without lines. She was smart for her age."

I was so deep in the story; I came closer as she paused, catching her breath. This is going to be so interesting, I thought to myself.

"Every day, when her father comes home, she would show him what she drew, gathering from the garden, she drew flowers, animals, and people, and they all looked great. She felt proud of herself. Her parents were too." Mom looked so deeply into her thoughts, I thought at one point she would stop talking, but she continued.

"She would remind her parents to not forget her drawings, as she would try to remind them of each one she drew. She would get upset when they won't tell her which she drew something and so her parents remembered the pictures, each time they saw a new one. This went on for quite some time."

"One day, she was playing outside, and she fell. Crying, she told her parents what happened, and they soon found out she had a fractured wrist. For weeks, she could not draw or write, and she withdrew from it. Angry at herself, and her hand, she couldn't do anything else."

"Her parents got her something else for her birthday the next year. She got a sketchbook, one where you can do your own drawings, from your imagination. Happy once more, she bloomed."

On the verge of tears, I had been so embarrassingly kept back, and with a held breath, I sighed and gasped for breath. The tears flowed, and I hid from Mother. She tapped on the table, and I tapped back hastily to tell her I didn't want to look at her all teary-eyed. Her story was emotional already. Realizing it was all familiar to me, as though I know this story, it all fitted into place when I looked at her.

"Now, do you understand? It was you," she said and held onto my hand and with a motherly tone. She explained concisely to me, "You need to find your inspiration and if you use your turmoil to adapt to your artistic desires, then it is not a problem either. Your key is not producing all the time, it is making sure you have what it takes to produce when you need to."

I smiled at her, and we both heard the ding of the timer on the stove. We both shared a look and got our separate oven mitts on. Mother likes to wear them, while I would not risk such a thing. I would just hold the pan with it instead. While cooling and the warm, creamy scent circulating around the kitchen, the only sound we could hear was hungry stomachs growling.

When it cooled, begrudgingly, we couldn't eat it yet. I had given her the details of my friends, and we took theirs aside first, then my father's share, mine, hers, and then we decided the ones we have left over would share among the neighbors. We had a reputation around this place. When Mother bakes, she shares with them all. Intriguing and loving her baking, they would pay her for special occasions to bake for them. All the more reasons she taught me and I caught on quickly. The look on their faces would be priceless, I thought, opting to my mother that later on, I would share them.