Flavors by Emily Sue Harvey

addle-brained, you know?”
    The little timer went off, and I tried to figure out how to pull out the hot pans without scorching myself. After all, I wasn’t exactly experienced. So Maveen guided me through the intricate process. We carefully turned the layers out on waxed papered plates to set into the refrigerator for a quick cool.
    As they cooled, we sat quietly through several more tunes, some familiar, others not as much. But all lovely and Porter-y. We hummed along and sang with the ones we knew, comfortable
as two old shoes together, checking the cake layers periodically until they were ready to ice.
    â€œWhat color do you want the frosting?” Maveen asked, pointing to a little box with tiny bottles of assorted colors.
    â€œCan I do any I like?”
    â€œShoot, yeah,” she grinned. I picked the blue and dribbled several drops into the creamy batch I’d already begun mixing. As I turned the mixer on high and watched, soft yellow and blue turned a lovely shade of pale sea green.
    â€œOoo, look at it,” I exulted, thrilled beyond words at my wonderful creation. My excitement grew as I spread the concoction over and around the first cake tier.
    â€œIt’s real, real pretty,” Maveen cooed as she placed the second layer atop the first and I began to ice it. She showed me how to smooth and fill in the creases. By the third layer I was slapping it on like the mad scientist. I even made the frosting curl like ocean waves by flapping the spatula against the sea of aquamarine.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with your hand?” Maveen asked, peering at the reddish rash on my hands that had begun appearing right after we’d gone to the farm. “What is that? Does it hurt?”
    â€œNo. It itches sometimes.” I shrugged. “Don’t know what it is. Mama’s gonna take me to Dr. Wright soon’s I get back home for good. He’s not ever open when I’m home on the weekend.” Since the rash didn’t hurt, I wasn’t too conscious of it.
    â€œLook at you,” Maveen crowed as I licked the mixer blades clean and gazed in awe at the tall, festive cake. “You are a cook now,” she gushed and hugged me hugely.
    Just then, Nat King Cole belted out Porter’s “Just One of Those Things.” “He’s Daddy’s favorite crooner,” I declared, dancing around as I helped Maveen clear the table and wash up the cake pans, bowls and utensils.

    Then we sat down and ate a slice of the cake. “Just a small one,” Maveen insisted as I started to cut hers. “I licked some of the batter and frosting, too,” she reminded me.
    â€œYeah,” I agreed and cut us two slim pieces. We sat at the red-topped, chrome-wrapped table and ate to Bing Crosby’s rendition of “You Do Something To Me .”
    â€œMm,” Maveen groaned with pleasure. “This is good, Sadie.”
    â€œYeah,” I agreed, pride swelling. “Wish I was hungrier, though. Licking the bowls and spatula filled me up.” I finished my small portion and put the lid on the cake, proud as punch over my masterpiece.
    Later, Mama and Daddy came in and enjoyed a slice, too, bragging like I’d won the Academy Award. I loved it. “I wish Maveen could babysit us all the time,” I said to Mama as we washed and rinsed their desert plates. I did drying duty and put them away.
    â€œWe already thought of that,” Mama said. “She’s gotta take care of her mama during the day when we need somebody here. She’d really like to, but I think she’s too broken up right now over being separated from Gene to handle a full-time job taking care of kids.”
    â€œYeah.” Oh, but how I’d love to be with Maveen and be home, too.
    â€œJust you wait and see. It won’t be long before we figure out a way for you to stay home.” Mama hugged me and kissed the top of my head. When I didn’t respond, she said