When Momma Bakes

Trigger warning: Child abuse and child abandonment.

Watching Momma bake always brings happiness into my life.

Humming an original honeyed tune, Momma brushes past me, grabbing the fresh milk from our goats, duck eggs, and hand-whipped butter. “These need to come to room temperature before we use them. Always pull them out first and set aside the necessary amounts.” My eyes lock with hers while her smile slows time.

I'm seven now, and I remember when Momma taught me last year, although she’s sure to remind me each time. Her voice is sweet and gentle, like a Christmas melody. I catch it in my ear and hold it close. I hurry to help her grab the mixing bowls. I make sure to grab one bowl for wet ingredients and a separate bowl for dry ingredients. I feel so proud knowing that Momma has taught me well. The notes I hear start seeping from my lungs, and I notice her tune gets even sweeter.

Along the cherry wood cabinets, I find the wide top drawer touching the vintage, pastel-yellow oven. I search for the whisk. Momma’s powder blue dress flows gracefully around her legs, ringlets of espresso colored hair framing her face as the rest is pinned up at the crown of her head. The clinks of her heels spout a bonus instrument with the playing symphony. She carries the electric hand mixer from the highest shelf over to the kitchen island. “Can you find the flour and sugar for the cookies?”

“Yes, Ma'am.” The music gets louder as I turn the corner from the kitchen. It fills the house with a calming aura. I find myself standing small at the pantry door. The lock, usually perched atop, now rests in Momma's white floral apron. I shove open the heavy oak door. The flour and sugar wait on the shelf beside fresh fruits and vegetables. I march past a wall of canned jars, clutching the flour and sugar in my arms. I dash back to her side. I love when Momma bakes. I don't want to miss a second of it.

Momma measures out the dry ingredients while I sit across from her at the island bar. Her hands are steady when she pours the flour. As my mind begins to drift away from the calm of the kitchen, I find myself slipping into memories of last Christmas, as she levels out the next scoop.

Daddy and Momma swirl around the living room. Crackling from the fire and their laughter flood my memories. The smell of chocolate and cinnamon awakens my stomach. The music is ringing and swells with each chorus. There is nothing I love more than being together with both of them. Daddy grabs my little hands and pulls me onto his feet. Dancing and spinning, the moment seems to last hours.

Back in the kitchen, my feet dangle and swing while I close my eyes, Momma's sweet hums filling my ears. Anxiousness and eagerness mix in my chest when she says, “Grab the whisk, and you can mix the dry ingredients.” I trot to the other side of the kitchen. My heart flutters, and I glow as I come to her waist. The green in her eyes is dazzling as she peers down at me. Her glance encases me, and I stumble when I reach for the whisk. The metal clatter on the maple wood floor is all it takes to halt the blissful baking. Instantly, my happiness is replaced by dread. My stomach sinks. My body freezes as I wait for her to make the first move.

Momma's head snaps toward me, her eyes lowering and turning to daggers. Piercing my soul, I don’t waver from her stare. Eyes wide, breath shaky, mind barren of hope. “Momma... I... I'm sorry!” As the last word leaves my quivering lips, there is movement on my right. My skin stings and pulses, the rings from her right hand imprinted on my cheek. I know to run the moment her body moves toward mine. I hesitate, and I don’t miss her swing like last time. Baring her teeth, mouth open, she screams. The guttural noises that emerge from her throat are all too familiar.

“You ruin everything!” The clanking of her heels reverberates while I race through the garage. She’s crossing the clothesline, 200 feet behind, when I reach the edge of the woods. The thick trees and distance can’t muffle the names she’s calling me. They break through the wind as it picks up, seeming to carry them faster to me. Bouncing through my head as I run further, the words stay just as clear.

My makeshift clubhouse is a 10-minute walk. I found all the materials in the woods. Someone must have dumped them years ago. I took nails from the toolbox at home and patched together a little wooden shelter. Water splashes on my shoulder as my eyes set sight on my destination. It's darker outside than it should be.

I enter my hut as rain clashes against the dark brown slab above me. Mud squelches beneath my toes. I never thought I’d need shoes to bake cookies. A little army cot awaits with my pillow, blanket, and teddy perched atop.

Wrapped in my pink blanket, I close my eyes, and I replay her hums. My teddy tells me everything will turn out okay. I have faith that someday, I’ll learn how to be good for Momma. I long for her hugs again. I ache for the rare praise and the conditional love she gives me when I obey her demands. There’s a sureness inside of me that believes my Daddy will come back to us.

The cot jabs my side where it folds in the middle. I think of the freshly baked cookies waiting for me inside. When I wake up, I know she’ll pretend that nothing happened. I rock myself while I cradle my teddy, the notes I’d heard start seeping quietly from my lungs. I smile as my pillow collects teardrops while I fall asleep. Watching Momma bake brings happiness into my life. Even if only for a moment.