If I worried about anything, it certainly wasn’t the raw egg in the yellow cake batter my mother occasionally mixed up, along with the aid of boxed Betty Crocker, or Duncan Hines.  Begging for the beater in mid-whirr. I sandwiched myself between apron and cupboard, inching my fingers toward the spinning bowl, my mother trying to push me out of danger with one thigh. She spun the dial back to stop, and cranked the neck, lifting the dripping attachments just out of my reach. She unplugged the mixer, because she thought of things like that — ways to protect me. Perhaps she had been bitten or pinched before. Or maybe it was other dangers lived through that told her to beware. With the power off, I felt like it had all been given to me. I cupped both hands as the elixir dripped into my palms. We had spoons, even a spatula, but I couldn’t be bothered with either. She then pulled the beaters out of the neck and handed me the first. Licking one rung left two pale yellow lines above and below my mouth. I was a warrior — a “battered” warrior. 

Of course we never used those words, because they would have been too close. Too close to the actual battles ahead. And if there were warnings, would we have even heard them? Over the mixer’s motor? (I’m not sure anyone can, or does.) The laughter rang as she wiped a line of batter from my face and tasted it? Sweet was the taste of no real fear. 

I don’t know if he left that day, my father. Did the cake get baked? Did we eat it? Did it get thrown away? This yellow cake of innocence? I don’t remember hearing the mixer again. Did we sell it at the garage sale? Probably. It was big. Too big to fit in our future small apartment. Too loud for those above us, or beside us. She would have thought of things like that. Not disturbing the neighbors in the duplex. The fourplex. The eventual apartment.

We never really baked again. But she filled my palms. First with security. Her hand in mine. And when the hunger returned, for something sweet, when the baked-in trust awakened and said it was ok to enjoy things, the laughter came as well, by the handful, by the heart full. Sweet laughter. It rang over rumor. It rang over fear. And it WAS sweet. Not like at first — when I didn’t know about the “eggs” — when I didn’t know that bad things could happen. (Once you know about them, it’s hard to forget.) But sweet nonetheless. Even baking now, I don’t give it worry — it’s just a part of it. And life is still so very sweet. 

It’s happened once or twice before — just as it did this morning. Walking on the path, it nearly stopped me in my tracks. This sweet taste in my mouth. So clear. So delicious. So transportive. Yellow cake batter. The taste tickled my tongue. Inside my cheeks. I put my finger to my lip. Surely it was there. It was so real. My finger came back dry. But the smile remained. 

The certainty of gravel remains beneath my feet. I stand unafraid. She is still finding a way to protect me — she still thinks of things like that. Reminding me. Pointing me to all things good. And the laughter rings above the birds, singing “Fill your heart. Feed your soul.  Taste this life.”