Guardian by Valerie King Page A

her eyes and a smile on her face. It was obvious where my mother had gotten her love of cooking from, as well as her astounding natural beauty.
    Taking a deep breath, I watched as my mother smoothed out her apron and held a smaller apron out to me to put on. I stood up from the table, walking over to her, and stuck my head through its opening. I pulled my long brown hair out from underneath it as Mom tied a bow around my waist.
    “Okay, Macy, grab the stool in front of the oven, and let’s get to work. I’ll measure the ingredients, and you stir the bowl. Sound okay, sweet little helper?” She pinched my cheeks and kissed the tip of my nose, making me giggle out loud.
    “Sounds good, Mommy,” I replied, grabbing the wooden spoon on the counter and holding it with anticipation.
    Mom carefully measured each individual ingredient for the tarts. First the flour, then the sugar…I watched her as she buzzed around the kitchen, searching through cabinets for bottles of various spices and pulling ingredients from canisters on the kitchen counter.
    I stirred the filling in a large, blue-enamel mixing bowl with my wooden spoon, trying not to allow any of the contents to sneak over the edge. The more grown-up I was at mastering a recipe, perhaps the more likely I would be able to be a part of a dinner party with my parents.
    While my mother was busy rolling the dough for the tart crusts, I snuck a taste of the delicious cherry filling. Something was missing, though. I could taste the cloves and sweet, sugary cherries, but the filling was lacking an important ingredient. I placed my hand on top of the yellow recipe card on the counter. Without reading a single ingredient, I knew instantly what was missing. Ground cinnamon. My mind was great at telling me things.
    “Mommy, you forgot to put the cinnamon in the cherry filling,” I said aloud.
    “No, I didn’t, honey, I put the cinnamon in along with the cloves.” She turned to smile at me, placing her hands on her hips, then spun around to finish rolling the dough. “No sneaking tastes, Macy, or no licking the bowl when we’re finished,” she said without removing her eyes from the rolling pin.
    I disagreed with her, but decided not to push the issue of the missing cinnamon. I shrugged my shoulders and continued stirring in a clockwise motion.
    “Let’s get these tart shells filled.”
    I let go of my spoon and stepped down from my stool. Mom filled each one precisely, the sweet liquid bubbling up to the rim of each shell. Mom placed the tarts on a baking sheet before slipping them in our tiny oven.
    “Okay, sweetie, now you can lick the bowl.”
    A grin spread across my face as I licked my lips. I spent the next five minutes cleaning the bowl, careful not to leave a single remnant of the luscious filling. The sweet, saturated aroma from the cherry tarts baking filled every square inch of our home.
    “Thank you for being such a great helper. How about a few gingersnaps and a glass of lemonade while we wait for the tarts to finish cooking?”
    Jumping down from my stool, I skipped over to the kitchen table and sat down. “Yes, please!” I drummed my fingers on the dark surface of our antique table while I waited.
    “Do I have to go to Ms. Lennox’s house tonight?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
    “We already talked about this, Macy. Yes, you have to stay with Ms. Lennox tonight. I’ll be over first thing in the morning to pick you up, okay?”
    Ms. Lennox…she was a nice lady. A lonely widow who treated her Siamese cat, Meadow, like a child. I actually didn’t mind Ms. Lennox’s company. She had a shelf full of fairytales and a large collection of board games that we played together often. Her chocolate chip cookies were delicious, and when I spent the night with her, she always allowed me to stay up an hour past my regular bedtime as long as I didn’t tell my mother. I agreed to our little secret. Despite the fact that I liked spending time