WEEK 2 PROMPT! Two pages about your favorite, or least favorite, food. I went with favorite. Because my mother’s Cheesecake is the best thing, and I only get it like 2-3 times a year because she’s evil. There was a second prompt this week as well, but I’m actually working on that one still and turning it maybe in to something longer. Will update it when I get to somewhere I like with it. But for now: Cheesecake time.
“Michael McDowel, you get out of that kitchen right this instant.”
“You have until the count of three. One.”
“I just wanted to see what smelled so good though.”
“I haven’t eaten since like…Lunch and that was so long ago!”
“Two and a half.”
“Two and three quarters.”
LInda smiled when she heard the thudding of her son stomping up the stairs. She never had to get to three. She was glad for that, considering she’d have no idea what she would do if she ever did. It was effective though, and that was what mattered. She waited until she heard his door close upstairs before she pulled herself up from the comfortable chair she had sunken into about twenty minutes ago. It was probably as good a time as any to check on how everything was progressing anyway.
She always bit off more than she could chew when it came to the holidays, without fail. This year she’d agreed to two appetizers on top of the desserts she always brought. But, Linda supposed, if it meant not having to suffer through the sad excuse for a seven layer dip that Debbie brought last year she would stay up a little later to make sure everything was edible. The gauc in it had tasted like dirt. And don’t even get her started on the sad excuse for Pinwheels that someone had brought. She shuddered at the thought of it.
Her kitchen smelled divine as she walked in, taking a deep breath. The artichoke and crab dip was just about ready to come out of the oven. Toasting the bread could wait until the morning, to make sure it stayed nice and crunchy. Speaking of crunchy: Next was to fry up the bacon for the bacon wrapped figs. Which meant that she could check on the most important thing she would bring with her to Christmas dinner tomorrow.
Linda’s most vivid memories with her grandmother were when she was sitting in the kitchen while Gamma, as she had called her, toiled over supper for her and her parents. She came to live with them before she was even born, and couldn’t imagine a life where the woman wasn’t always there. Gamma was old world when it came to working in the kitchen. Nothing was done by measurements, only by feeling and years of working the same recipies. A young Linda was fascinated with the way everything was a pinch, a dash, a flick of an old, creaking wrist.
Her mother had translated most of the recipies in to actual measurements, keeping them in a little book in a drawer for the day that Gamma wouldn’t live with them any more. But there was one that eluded her: Cheesecake. Gamma learned it from her mother, who learned it from hers, and back and back for what seemed like forever. Linda’s mother could make it just fine, but she still couldn’t quite explain that the measurements when written down never seemed right.
“Well, don’t just sit there and kick your feet.” she could still hear her grandmother say before she jumped down from the stool pulled up next to the counter. “Go and grab the mixing bowl. We have work to do.”
She smiled fondly at the memory as she opened the fridge, scanning for where she left the bacon so she could get started. Of course, her eyes lingered on the plate where she’d already cut up the cheesecake. Always into bite sized squares. She was never really sure why that was the tradition, as slices would probably have been better. But one and a half by one and a half inch squares were how they’d been serving is since the 40s. If she had to guess, it was so you’d have room for other cookies, and cakes and-
The plastic wrap had been pushed up slightly on one side from the plate. She was certain she had wrapped it up quite tightly, and hadn’t put anything else in the fridge that could have nudged the wrap in any way. Scanning the plate, she stopped as she saw an empty space near the middle: a perfect one and a half inch by one and a half inch empty space.
“Michael!” Her son’s laughter as she shouted his name made her far less angry than she wanted to be.
Apparently, Linda thought, she’d need to count faster from now on.