At some point, the kitchen had become an arsenal- every cookie and candy a piece of jeweled artillery gleaming in the December sunlight. The window toward the east framed angus in the Midwest snow, a pasture of steam-nosed creatures with frozen hooves and calves dancing in the powder.
My chubby hands rested, at ease now that my bangs were held back by a bandana which smelled of Daddy’s jacket: wintergreen tobacco and the brittle cologne of a working man.
Among the bunkers of pink, glazed sugar cookies and buttermilk fudge, a rippling cloud of bone white divinity lay; tangible whisps of rich velvet sweetness.
“The sun’s shinin’,” Ma would say. “Divinity makes best when the sun is shinin’.”
Her freckles were the color of cinnamon then, tiny kaleidoscopes beneath brown irises and etched crow’s feet. She’d hum a hymn while I made handprints in the flour and snuck pieces of dough to the dog under the table.
I grew up and learned it was all in the mechanics of humidity but yet… I still believe divinity sets best with the magic of love.