LEMON CAKE

Preheat the oven and grease the cake pan. Ruth set the tattered, wrinkled recipe paper on the counter as she busied herself around the kitchen. For once, the kids were gone, her husband was on a business trip, and the house was quiet. Silence was a commodity Ruth never had, and she intended to make the most of it. Lemon cake had been her favorite cake growing up, and she had many memories of working in the kitchen, especially with her grandmother. Every time she made the cake, it always lifted her into a better mood; the scent of lemons and sugar had a magical effect. After turning on the oven, Ruth moved around the kitchen, gathering the flour from the pantry and the eggs from the fridge.

Cream the butter and the sugar together in a mixing bowl. As Ruth switched on the electric mixer, she studied the two substances churning together, the consistent motion reminding her of the ocean. The only time she had ever been to the beach was when she and her husband were newly married. After sitting out in the sun all day, he had wanted to go back to the beach house.

“When will we ever get to the beach again?” Ruth asked, pushing her sunglasses on top of her head so she could see Jordan more clearly.

“We’ve been here all day, and I’m going to get sunburned if we stay any longer. Let’s go.” Jordan had packed up everything except for the chair Ruth sat in. Eventually, she convinced him to go back to the house alone with the promise that she would return soon. When she did, he was gone, presumably to a local pub to drink off his frustration.

Add four eggs. The yolks combined with the pale yellow mixture turned the batter into a deeper, sunshine yellow. Ruth missed the sunshine; she grew up in Arizona, where the sun and heat were relentless. It may have scared off outsiders, but it was her home. She was a daisy, always trying to find and chase the sunlight.  

When she was pregnant with her first child, Ruth had been excited to raise a family near her childhood home. Jordan wanted to move north, where the sun was less intense.

“We could be closer to my family,” he had reasoned. “And our kids would get to know their grandparents. It’ll be great.”

“What about my family? I want them to know my parents, too.” She didn’t have a good relationship with much of her extended family other than a few aunts and uncles, but Ruth was close with her siblings.

“We can come to visit them on holidays when it isn’t so blazing hot outside. The kids will get to know your family just fine. Besides, you know I can’t stay in the sun very long anyway. I’ll burn, which would lead to skin cancer.” With that, Jordan began looking at homes in Washington, and once he found one that suited his taste, that was that. No more sunshine, just overcast skies and fog.

Zest a lemon and add it to the mixing bowl. Ruth’s grandmother penned this recipe, and she bequeathed many of her baking supplies to Ruth. As the sharp smell of citrus permeated the room, she found herself standing in her childhood home, watching her grandmother zest a lemon.

“You have to be careful, otherwise you might hurt your fingers a little bit,” her grandmother warned gently, demonstrating how to properly hold the fruit. Loud, angry voices drifted down from upstairs, but before Ruth could listen, her grandmother spoke again. “Are you paying attention, Pumpkin? One day, you’ll be able to show your granddaughter how to make this cake.”

Ruth was paying attention, but she couldn’t help but overhear the shrill shriek of her mother and the bellowing voice of her father as they had an “adult discussion” upstairs in their bedroom. But the lemony fresh smell helped to distract her.

Sift the dry ingredients together. The flour dusted across the kitchen countertop looked like snow. Jordan’s parents took him skiing in Colorado while he was growing up, and he was always promising to take Ruth and the kids on a similar trip. 

One winter, Jordan booked tickets to a ski resort in Colorado. Ruth was helping their youngest, only four years old at the time, pack a suitcase when Jordan came hurrying in.

“I canceled the flight. There was a work emergency,” he explained shortly.

Ruth stopped what she was doing at his words. “What do you mean? We leave tomorrow morning. Can’t they get on without you for a couple of days?”

“It’s an emergency, babe. We’ll go next year, I swear.”

It had been four years since the trip was canceled, and there hadn’t been a replacement vacation scheduled. Ruth never brought it up again.

Combine vanilla, buttermilk, and lemon juice in another bowl. Add it gradually to the dry ingredients. Ruth always had extra lemons on hand. They could be used to whiten teeth or get rid of headaches. The juice was good to use on stains or for any sort of cleaning. With a couple of rinses and applications of lemon juice, you could even get rid of blood stains.

A year ago, Ruth’s third child had come home from school with a bloody nose. “What happened?” she questioned upon seeing it staining his shirt. 

“Some kid hit me,” he answered simply.

“Why?”

“Dunno.”

As she grabbed tissues, Ruth requested that he change clothes so she could work on the stain. It had taken three washes and scrubbing the shirt with lemon juice before the stain finally gave way. That was the first time of many when he came home injured in one way or another. Not for any particular reason, according to him, but just that the kids at school didn’t like him.

In her days at college, Ruth had used lemons after nights of partying and drinking. Just a bit of lemon juice and sugar helped her avoid headaches, pay attention in class the morning after, and attempt to forget about any mistakes she might have made. After marrying Jordan, she hardly had anything to drink anymore. He couldn’t stand the smell on her, and he always told her that she was too clingy when she drank.

Pour the batter into the pan and bake for 50 minutes. Ruth slid the pan into the oven, enjoying the small blast of heat that came her way when she opened the oven door. The cake was in the oven, and now, Ruth was left to figure out how to break the news to Jordan. She thought that with a cake, she could tell him in a fun way. Just like the cake had been baked in the oven, she had a bun in her oven, so to speak. She and Jordan weren’t trying for any more children, but Ruth wanted more. Jordan didn’t. She hoped that if she made the cake for him and told him after the children went to bed, he might not yell. Maybe the sugar would soften the blow.

Make the glaze with confectioner’s sugar and lemon juice. Ruth supposed that there was always a silver lining to these kinds of situations. It didn’t matter what Jordan thought; she had already decided they weren’t going to give up this baby. It meant having another financial burden, but to Ruth, it would be worth it. Her youngest would be eight years older than this child, but no matter. If there could be another lively laugh floating through the house or tiny slaps of feet running on the hardwood floors, it would be worth the pain and the toil, no matter how Jordan saw it. 

Maybe this would finally be the one to have a happy childhood. Her kids had to endure years of canceled plans, glares between their parents, and disappointment when their father didn’t show up at their events. Ruth would finally be able to take her children to visit her mother; the last time they visited was after Ruth’s father passed. She would introduce her children to their extended family, and all would be well. Instead of taking a ski trip, they would drive to the beach, just as Ruth had been wanting to do for years. 

They would be a happy family. Just the six of them. They would laugh, eat dinner together, go on trips, make memories, and finally have the closeness Ruth had been craving ever since her childhood. 

Remove the cake from the oven. Let it cool fully, then glaze it. After reading the final step, Ruth put away the recipe. The house smelled heavenly and fresh. Soon, her children would be home from school, and Jordan would be back from the airport. Enjoying her last few moments of sane silence, she picked up the bowl of glaze and drizzled it on top of the dense cake. Once she was satisfied with its picture-perfect appearance, she took a small step back. How was she going to tell Jordan? Surely her favorite lemon cake wasn’t enough to stifle the shock he’d have when she told him that she was pregnant. Would he laugh? Cry? Stay silent? Perhaps he would be angry with her, but then again, it’s not like it was her fault. She couldn’t help it. 

As Ruth stared at the cake, she examined the intricate design she created with the glaze, almost like latticework. She had done that; no one helped her. Maybe it didn’t matter what anyone thought. Maybe she could create something beautiful on her own and have it turn out okay. In a moment of pure spontaneity, Ruth pulled a fork out of the cutlery drawer and took a bite of the fresh cake. The flavors burst forth on her tongue, somehow simultaneously sweet and sour. The lemon was strong, but it didn’t overpower the sugar from the glaze. Both flavors balanced each other perfectly. And Ruth had created it on her own. 

Jordan wouldn’t like that she took a bite directly out of the cake without cutting it first. He would have liked to cut it into neat, even slices, each with a proportionate amount of glaze on top. But Ruth liked it this way: imperfect. Her life wasn’t perfect. With three kids, it couldn’t be; everything was messy all the time. Jordan couldn’t stand it, but Ruth thrived. It meant that there was life in her home, something she craved. It meant that she didn’t have to be a model housewife, but that she, too, could have faults.

As she watched her husband’s car pull into the driveway, Ruth set the fork down. Her hair was a mess, the cake wasn’t perfect, and she didn’t know how to phrase the news. But she was excited to add another member to their family. No matter what Jordan thought.