Baking a Cake In Auntie's Kitchen
While my Aunt Rusha and momma chatted
on the front porch swing that afternoon
I slipped into Auntie’s kitchen
to bake a cake.
How hard could it be, I thought—
a little of this and a little of that, mostly
flour, as I recall, and other white stuff
from her pretty cannisters.
My cake mixed up quite well, but I needed
some liquid to hold it together, like oil,
I believe Auntie used, like the oil
in the squirt can atop the frig.
That should do the trick, but I could barely
reach it, and the chair I was standing on
slipped just as I poured in the precious oil
only to come tumbling down
on my diaper-clad bottom!
The clatter got their attention. By the time
they got to the kitchen
I was running home as fast as I could
through the cornfield.
Auntie told the story a hundred times
and always added, “If he hadn’t used
the machine oil, I could have baked
a pretty good cake.”
written June 4, 2021
submitted to "A Tender Moment from Childhood" poetry contest
sponsored by Malabika Ray Choudhury
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