full moon in Libra

the family secret Black Cake recipe

1. Setting 

you’re running late. ingredients should have begun flying from the cabinets with the start of a fresh year before we managed to finish the cake packed away in pyrex tupperware to the tune of steel pan Christmas songs. 

but it’s spring. new can take so many forms. 

you say cake, but you know it’s cakes. think of the cold glass table in the backroom, overflowing with the delicious sharp smell of magic piled higher than you could see. a ray of island sunshine days before an unending New York winter would commence. remember him wrapping them up, ready to be shipped around from Canarsie to Cane Garden. the holiday surprise they all knew to expect. 

in a food processor macerate prunes, cherries, raisins, dried currants, orange rinds, a touch of liquified burnt sugar, and some crushed almonds—if you want a crunch. pack the blended fruit into a jar, a big one. stuff in everything you’ll never know about him. but leave space for the silence

and room for it to breathe. 

pour rum and brandy and port on top until you’ve covered the fruit. then one more splash of rum

mama would ask why he made so many. “the recipe is elastic, it makes the right amount.” he would reply

intuit the quantities. this is in your blood. 

2. Soaking

give it a good home, shaded, tucked into the corner, out of the sunbeams’ sight. protected in the shadow of the window sill jungle above 

let this sit, the longer the better 

part of it is waiting, part of it is what you do while you’re waiting because you never stop baking the cake. what do you infuse into it, yell over it, and knock around it while it’s perched on your countertop?

I asked him, “have you called your mother recently?”

he replied, curiosity weaving itself through his tone, “my mother?”

I remained silent, indicating that he had understood me correctly. 

with new clarity in his voice, he sighed the words, “I call my mother every night”

“well, we’ve been speaking too, maybe you could talk a little longer tonight? I think she’s missing you.”

“hmm… she’s out there with you?” 

“Yeah. I feel like I’m getting to know her a little.” I paused then continued with mischief in my voice, “ and I finally get to hear some stories about her favorite child!” a role he is still honored to play. 

“I don’t know about her favorite,” he trailed off for a moment. “ I was the one who went with her on her adventures, the ones in and out of her head.” his voice became softer and more pensive. “there was this way in which we just understood each other. she could share things with me that she couldn’t say out loud.” he took a deep breath. “I feel that with you. you know?”

“I do.” my response, matter of fact but dripping with affection. we have also been having interdimensional calls every night.

the African violets smiled from their sunny spot in the window and thanked me for delivering their message. 

3. Baking 

one year, the cakes never arrived. 

he didn’t feel up to it. we never said Cancer. but now you get to inherit his fruit, emulsified and gooey, it's been stewing for months, years, generations. 

preheat the oven. anything from 300 to 350 will do. 

cream the butter and the sugar together in a mixing bowl. 

whisk the eggs until they are frothy like the Bequia shoreline. then pour them into the mix slowly. 

the key here is to keep it from curdling. 

combine cinnamon, nutmeg, baking soda, flour, and the dust from old photo albums peppered with your features on faces you don’t recognize. sift the dry ingredients over the mixing bowl. disappear them gently and patiently by folding the batter as you go. 

open the jar and breathe in the alchemy. dig out the fruit mixture and add it to the bowl

wiping the insides clean with your hand. dig past the glass bottom through to that space between realms.

handle this moment with care. 

over time, tantalizing rumors spin themselves together there. things you’ve heard, questions that have gone unanswered, whipsters between you and your sister, you and your cousin, you and your great great great great grandmother. dig up the ones that have been marinating the longest. they will be the juiciest. the most sinewy. 

mix the batter thoroughly and pour it into cake tins. 

for an extra touch, finely grate a secret of your own and sprinkle it, gingerly, over the mix. 

bake for about an hour. douse the cakes, fresh out of the oven, with just a little more rum.

4. Tasting

it should be Christmas but it’s not. it’s fall and you are far from home. you send the cakes around as the saccharine and intoxicating embodiment of your love. hold your breath as he chews across the country, listen to the smile stretch out his face as he warmly says, “okay.” 

take the first bite and notice that the flavors upfront are just the beginning. everything you need is sitting under the surface, grazing those taste buds on the back of your tongue. a textured, yet smooth ride home. you savor the sweetness and the tangy bite—how did you manage to glaze it with the syrupy acerbity of a Vinci accent? 

but it’s the dizzying inscrutability that haunts your mouth

leaves you salivating

desperate for more.