Butterless, Eggless, Milkless Cake

“Henrietta, I expect more from you,” Sophia said sternly. “Matilda, would it kill you to help her out?” The two hens eyed her and the can of corn in her hand, clucking amongst themselves. She scattered some kernels watching the chickens excitedly chase after them. She had hoped to acquire more hens, but so far, she’d only managed these two. Henrietta had started to molt which always curtailed her egg laying. Matilda was so old she was more, or less ready for the stew pot, but Sofia couldn’t bring herself to do such a thing to her very first chicken. Now, Sophia’s understaffed coup was not providing any eggs at all. And she needed them, and soon.

Not just eggs, mind you. Real milk, butter and sugar, too. Cheese would be nice as well, but she wasn’t greedy. All she needed was the ingredients for a cake. A real cake. Not one made using powdered milk or powered eggs. So, maybe not the cheese. Walking her empty basket back to the house, Sophia wondered how anyone could be so devious as to make something as delightfully creamy as milk or as wonderfully fluffy as eggs (at least when they had a proper scramble) into dusty powders. It was enough to make one think it was some plot by the enemy. The war had taken so much, did it have to take every small comfort?

“Now Sophie, you know better,” she chided herself. Sacrifice is what was done in times of war. And so many were sacrificing so much more than her. So what if her milk was thin and her eggs thick? As long as Jeremy came home to her, it was worth it.

The vibration of the deck was unnerving and made Corporal Jeremy Stokes grip the rail. The churning water at the stern of the tugboat frothed in blue-green swirls as it maneuvered the ship to its berth. The Atlantic crossing had been cramped and hot in the belly of the ship. The smell of diesel, cigarette smoke and unwashed bodies below decks was enough to send him topside every chance he got. But the cold greeting from the north Atlantic wind usually drove him below all too soon. Then there was the ever-present threat of the German wolf packs. Having never been on a ship before the war, he’d never known ocean travel without the fear of being torpedoed.

Sophia, he thought with a smile. Memories of his wife always brought a smile to his face. On every march, in every bunker and foxhole, she had gotten him through. He’d be home soon. She would be so surprised to see him walk up the street, open the gate and meet her on the front porch. Ropes cascaded from the ship to the waiting hands on the pier below. His wounds had ended the war for him, but he knew himself to be lucky. A million-dollar wound they called it. Even though he hadn’t thought it at the time, they were right. He’d recover with nothing more than a scar and a story to go along with it. So many others were not so lucky.

Jeremy would be home soon, Sophia had calculated the days. Gloria, her neighbor down the street, had a brother in the same battalion. In a letter to his sister he’d mentioned Jeremy’s homecoming. Jeremy’s last letter to Sophia had been from a field hospital assuring her he was well but would be convalescing in Britain. He wasn’t much of a writer. Sending a single letter home for every six she sent him. That was alright, she told herself. He’s fighting a war, after all. Why he didn’t tell her about being sent home was a bit of a mystery. She hoped he was just wanting to surprise her. If so, she would play the part of the surprised wife but also have a wonderful cake waiting for him.

Milk she could be found or traded for. It was scarce, but not impossibly so like butter or cheese. What she wouldn’t give for some good cheese. And wine. And chocolate. That would be a heavenly treat. As Sophia mulled this over, the milk man turned the corner in his van. That’s Lester, on time as usual. She could see him stopping at every house, getting closer, and closer. Having taken up some mending and laundry for some of the neighbors with mothers or wives now working at the munitions factory, she had put a little aside for emergencies. While this was hardly an emergency, she wanted to be a good wife and felt like this was worth the money.

When he finally walked up with his delivery, she called out a hello. After a few words of gentile conversation, she got right to the point.

“Say Lester, I’ll need another bottle the day after tomorrow, She said sweetly. Lester rubbed the back of his neck looking like he had bad news.

“Sorry Ma’am. We’ve been running low lately. Some of our best milkers are being treated by the vet, and…”

“Oh, I completely understand,” she interrupted pleasantly. “This is just one additional bottle. This one time,” She assured him. “I’ll gladly pay for the extra.” She reached into her change purse and counted out several coins. Lester thought for a moment, then smiled saying that would be fine. He pocketed the coins and left his delivery, taking the empties. One less thing to find, Sophia thought as he drove away.

The train pulled into the station, pushed by clouds of steam and black smoke. Jeremy waited, shouldering his rucksack in anticipation. With his Atlantic crossing behind him, he’d be on a train or two before getting home. The huge cars shuddered to a halt. Conductors stepped off and, with a whistle and a wave, the passengers followed. Servicemen like him and an assortment of civilians waited for the flow to stop before boarding. Soon, Sophia. I’ll see you soon, he thought.

Like so many other soldiers Jeremy had fallen for a girl in the USO. A spirited young woman, Sophia had chestnut hair and stunning blue eyes. But unlike those other soldiers he’d also proposed. She had been a dance hostess for servicemen when they met. Jeremy was pretty good at swing dancing. Compared to the other guys that were fresh off the farm, he was a regular Fred Astair. The dances were weekly affairs and after his first, Sophia started looking for him. Sure, she danced with others, she had to. But she never laughed or smiled as much with anyone but Jeremy.

He was sure many had fallen for her. Perhaps some had even asked for her hand. But she’d only said yes to him. People called it a whirlwind romance, and that was accurate. They hadn’t been married long before he shipped out. In fact, their engagement was only a week old when his orders came through. After a hurried ceremony, he’d spent what he could to call home to tell his mother of his new wife. They had made the most of their time together and he parted from his tearful wife with a sincere promise to pick up where they left off.

Buying, trading and sweet-talking. The three best ways to get necessities during wartime. Sophia was proud of herself. Managing to get the ingredients needed for Jeremy’s cake hadn’t been easy, but the last of it was in her basket. She even had a small cake of butter. Real butter! She’d be baking this afternoon and hopefully Jeremy would be home tomorrow or the day after. Lifting the latch on the gate, she moved up the short walk to the porch.

“Glenda! I’m back! I have everything I need!” she called as she opened the front door. A quiet house greeted her. “Glenda?” She moved toward the kitchen, then paused. She heard a sound. A soft ting like the first drop of rain on a tin roof. She heard it again as she entered the kitchen. Beside her small stack of ingredients she’d left on the table stood Henrietta, cocking an eye to look back at her. For a moment the two regarded the other. Ting. Sophia looked down to see Matilda pecking at the tin can which held their feed. Ting.

“What are you two doing in here?” she asked, noticing the screen door to the back yard was wide open, Glenda draping a sheet over the clothesline in the distance. Looking back at Henrietta, Sophia slowly lowered her basket. “Come on sweetheart, Let’s get you back outside,” she said softly. Ting, Ting. Henriette eyed at her with growing suspicion. Ting.

Sophia moved to capture the chicken that was simply too close to her precious ingredients. The screen door caught the breeze and swung shut, slamming with a loud, snapping crack. Sophia’s hope to shoo the chickens out without too much of a fuss died right there. Matilda fled the sudden, alarming commotion, crossing the path between Sophia and the table. Henrietta, also startled by the loud sound, took flight. Well, as much flight as a chicken can.

The sudden flutter of wings surprised a scream from Sophia who promptly tripped over Matilda, the basket slipping from her grip. Henrietta tried desperately to gain altitude and, realizing she didn’t have it in her after all, veered right to circle back to the table and evade the flailing woman. The basket hit the floor with an alarmed squawk and sudden direction change from Matilda. Trying to grab the somehow still airborne bird Sophia lunged forward, stumbling again on the retreating chicken trying to dodge her ankles.

Glenda left her sheets in the laundry basket. Having heard a scream, she hurried back to the house. An alarmed Matilda made a break for it just as she opened the screen door. A dusty fog of flour hung in the air. Chicken feathers floated gently to the floor. Her daughter-in-law sat in the floor, a struggling chicken in her arms and tears in her eyes.

“Sophia, dear,” Glenda said softly with a hint of stifled laughter. “What… what happened?”

“It’s all ruined,” She replied. “All my ingredients. They’re just gone.” Sugar and flour covered the floor with more than a few feathers. The small cake of butter was now a smear across the table. And all that was left of her precious eggs were splattered craters beside the table.

“Tickets,” Sophia said, as Jeremy sent her twirling on the dance floor. “Tickets, please.” A rough hand grabbed his shoulder. Not another guy trying to cut in again, he thought. The hand shook Jeremy from his dream.

“Ticket, son,” The conductor repeated apologetically. Sleepy eyed, he searched his pockets and presenting his travel orders. With a quick look, the conductor moved on. Looking out of the window, the passing landscape was more familiar. The height of the hills, the types of trees and the color of the soil all had the look of home. He was so close.

Sophia looked over her recipe. This was hardly the cake she’d planned, saved and traded for. But in the end, you had to make do with what was available. It had many names. Depression Cake and War Cake were among them. But Sophia’s recipe labeled it Butterless, Eggless, Milkless Cake. A name that seemed to mock her from the page. Tucking a stray curl of hair behind her ear, she got started.

Dumping her brown sugar, water, shortening, water, spices and dried fruit into a pot, she lit the cooktop. As the pot heated, the contents melted and then began to bubble. She stirred hoping to make it more than it was. Was this right? The syrupy brown liquid slowly thickened into a sludge as bubbles stretched its surface before yielding with a deflating pop.

Adding the salt and baking soda which she’d made into a loose paste with water didn’t help. Her faith in this recipe was beginning to fade, until the kitchen began to fill with a spicy caramel smell. It wasn’t the light sweet smell of a white cake but more of a rich exotic smell you might find closer to a holiday like Christmas. Not what she had planned, but maybe not as bad as she had feared. Carefully she sifted in the flour and baking powder. Glenda had called in a few favors to replace what she could of what the chickens fouled. Bless her, Sophia thought.

Setting the stove before getting a wooden spoon and beating her concoction smooth, Sophia then poured it all into a small, greased pan. The batter, if you could call it that, was thick, brown and lumpy. The raisins making the small lumps she’d tried futilely to beat smooth. Red-faced and damp with sweat, she closed the oven and checked her watch to note the time.

Jeremy walked down the street, sack slung on his shoulder. The one flaw in his plan was getting home from the train station. No one was meeting him. He knew the way though, even without a car. Sophia had moved in with his mother. Since she was alone and Sophia still had siblings at home, it seemed to make sense. It was Sophia’s idea and he loved her all the more for it. The thought of his mother waiting out the war alone was heartbreaking.

An old truck slowed next to him, the weathered face of a farmer leaning out. “You need a lift, young man?”

“If it isn’t too much trouble,” he replied. The farmer told him to throw his bag in the back and climb in. People were never more friendly than when you were in uniform during war time.

Sophia pressed a skewer into the cake and drew it our clean. Apparently, it was ready. With a toweled hand, she pulled it out to cool on the stovetop. The whole house smelled of a warm, spicy sweetness which was much better than she expected. It still looked rather sad. Being flat, brown and dense hardly made a good presentation but hopefully it would taste fine.

“Oh well, at least it smells good,” she said to herself. Turning off the stove and opening the window to let the heat out, she began scrub.

The walk home would have taken over an hour, and Jeremy had been prepared for it. He’d walked much farther for much, much less in the Army. The ride in the truck only took fifteen minutes. The farmer wheeled up to the gate and welcomed him home with a tobacco-stained smile. Saying his thanks, Jeremy climbed out and grabbed his ruck sack.

He’d planned on surprising his wife walking up to the house. Instead, he found his mother weeding the flower beds. He almost fell over when she saw him. She hugged him fiercely with damp cheeks before telling him to see Sophia in the kitchen. Leaving his bag on the porch with his mother who insisted on giving him and his wife a few moments together, he went inside.

He found her leaning over the sink and ruthlessly scrubbing a pot to within an inch of its life. Moving behind her he wrapped her in his arms. Startled she dropped the pot and brush. Then, realizing the arms around her were uniformed, she turned to his embrace.

“Is that cake? It smells wonderful,” he whispered in her ear. She nodded, unable to speak.

“I made it for you,” She said, finally finding her voice. “Let’s have a piece.”