Peach Cake

The heirs descended upon the kitchen quicker than great-grandma Hilda could clean the place from top to bottom. Her family searched the home stuck in time; not looking for jewelry or trophies of the lost matriarch, but something else. They checked every curio cabinet filled with dolls and lifted every pink-cushioned toilet seat. Someone peered into the fireplace while the photos on the mantel watched their hands touch everything. One nosy descendant found it in the far teal cupboard near the bright window. A recipe on an index card sat neatly behind the German heart mugs, all the way in the back. Scrawled on the lined paper were the coveted words: Peach Cake.

It was the recipe for the traditional family dessert. When you’re from Essex, Maryland, it’s just something you know how to do. It’s imprinted on you, young. It’s like holding your nose when driving past the neighborhood “poop plant.” You learned how to make or consume peach cake, and you made it damn well, if you could make it at all.

Passing the card around the circle brought back memories of their childhood. All the barbecues, Christmases, and birthdays always had one thing in common, and they just discovered the treasure map. They salivated at the thought of being able to eat it whenever they wanted.

Uncle Glen grabbed the recipe from Kathy, who had found it.

“What do we do?” He demanded of the gang.

“Check the fridge!” Suggested a grandson.

“It’s all expired.” Glen said. They should have known; Hilda had watered none of her plants in a millennium either.

“We need to get our behinds to the grocery store and buy these ingredients!” Henry put his glasses down and spoke up.

The strongest of the bunch bounded through the split-level and piled into the garage. They balked at the rundown Chevy Blazer but climbed in after making fun of it, kids sitting on laps or on the middle console, and drove across the street to the supermarket. The youngsters sprinted through the aisles while Kathy kept the car running. They grabbed eggs, flour, milk, sugar, vanilla, but the biggest secret: they bought canned—not fresh—peaches. They discovered this detail on the back of the card, written in tiny cursive letters. The clerk dragged each item over the belt and rang them up while chewing gum. It was hard for her not to smile because she knew what they were doing solely based on the ingredients being purchased. She winked, “Good luck.” They grabbed the paper bags and dashed back to the car.

The group gathered once again around the kitchen table; dust was getting into the sun shafts, but this is peach cake we’re talking about, so they rubbed their hands together anyway, hoping it would only appear sooner.

The children poured the milk into measuring cups and the vanilla into teaspoons, while the aunts and uncles opened the fruit cans and cracked some eggs. Flour and powdered sugar got everywhere, but they actually had fun doing something together. They laughed while mixing the wet with the dry ingredients. There had been no activities in Hilda’s home in almost a decade, so the enormous collection of teddy bears tilted their heads as everyone beat and poured batter into pre-buttered pans. Normally distant relatives shared brief words. It was the moist, fluffy baked goods that brought them all together.

“How long will Michelle be in town?” Ding. Saved from small-talk by the oven bell.

It’s ready; the air was thick and wafted with glaze. Everything smelled of cinnamon, nutmeg, and sugared fruit.

“Don’t burn yourselves!” Kathy warned as she pulled the hot cake pan from the stainless steel oven.

They dug in with separate forks. One person used a spoon while Kathy pinched a piece off with her fingers. It’s soft at first, but delicate and sweet. Globs of spiced peaches macerated in their mouths while they almost floated around the room. It tasted like being a kid again, one says to another in an above-ground pool on a July afternoon. It was like swinging from the clothesline with way too much energy (probably from eating cake). Like the time you tried honeysuckle or blackberries growing wild in the backyard for the very first time, or stayed awake until dark catching lightning bugs with the neighborhood kids.

Just one slice remained as the last bite vanished. It was begging for someone to volunteer to take it. Their only answer was to create more, so they turned to the recipe card. Who gets it after all this? The realization made their stomachs drop. They froze as their beady eyes scanned the room. A standoff—who gets to continue to savor the legendary family dessert. Surely they can’t share it as one, as the legacy intended. One selfish person must have it all for themselves.

“I’ll take it. You know, I’m the eldest,” Henry insisted. “I will keep it safe! You can come visit it whenever you want.”

One clever cousin started saving the coveted piece in a napkin to recreate it as everyone lunged for the recipe card.

“No, it’s meant for me,” Kimmy declared, grabbing the index card, tugging and yanking on the fragile paper. The recipe ripped down the middle, and all the feuding resulted in shredding the family artifact to bits. Several pieces floated to the kitchen table. A corner of the card ended up on the yellow-tiled floor, where someone callously stepped on it.

Well, that did it.

The television turned on in the living room; grey shag carpet absorbed most of the static noise. Plush crochet pillows adorned with snowmen flew off the couch and hit the wall. The clock struck midnight while the sun was still high.

“You know—I knew you were all naughty.” Great-grandma Hilda’s ghostly visage wailed, turning everyone’s neck hairs white. Snakes coiled out of her eye sockets as her head rolled off her shoulders and splattered onto the floor.

Their mouths fell open and hung there. The group immediately collided with each other, knocking the weakest down while racing for the exit. Henry kicked open the door that was blocking their escape and jumped off the front stoop. It was every man for themselves. They scrambled down the street, bumping into each other.

“Forget the cake!” Kathy yelled.

Kimmy tried to stuff the leftover piece into her purse for later, but Hilda wouldn’t allow it. She reared her ghostly maw and the last grandchild dropped the cake in terror. Slipping on spilled batter, Kimmy ran out the door and chased after everyone else.

Great-grandma Hilda dusted off her tired hands and sat down for a hard-earned piece of peach cake. Every appliance in the home cut off except the boxy wooden radio. The broadcast softly played her favorite show—The Long Ranger. Hilda took a bite and savored the pink and orange delicacy. She pursed her lips and fluffed her cotton-candy hairdo.

“They used canned peaches, the fools.” She cackled. “Supposed to use fresh.” She finished the rest of the cake anyway and dropped her fork before vanishing, pleased as punch that her secret was safe for now.