I watch her pull out the small index card,
slipped safely inside its protective sleeve,
the typed words preserved on the surface,
yet, beginning to fade from the wear of use.
She reads it carefully and assembles the ingredients –
flour, eggs, vanilla, buttermilk, baking soda, shortening, and sugar.
She has made umpteen of these over the years,
but she still refers to the treasured recipe card,
not wanting to forget any ingredient or step.
She is the picture of concentration –
blending the shortening, sugar, and vanilla;
beating in the eggs, one at a time;
stirring in baking soda with the buttermilk;
mixing sifted flour, little by little.
The last step: she stirs in a secret ingredient.
The batter gets poured into the Bundt mold
and placed in the oven until it is ready.
One last set of instructions: “Papa, don’t turn on the broiler.”
I make one little mistake, once upon a time . . . oh, well.

The smell of the pound cake baking in the oven
is an exercise in patience for Papa,
knowing I have to wait for my slice of heaven,
even though I claim to be part of quality control.
She just smiles at me and shakes her head.
These cakes – evolving into something more than pound cake –
are now baked for special little ones.
They have now become . . . “Gigi” cake
for Holland and Hildi and soon to be Junia.
I see her anxiously take the cake from the oven,
poking it with toothpicks to check if it is done,
wondering if the cake is moist . . . if it meets her exacting standards.
Only the tasting will tell, which will have to wait,
for the first slices are reserved for the “littles”.
Only then can Papa have his first sampling,
letting his taste buds break out in their happy dance.

Gigi knocks on the door, holding the gift in her hands.
She is greeted with smiles and squeals and hugs.
Their eyes light up when they see the prize.
“‘Gigi’ cake,” is their welcoming response.
They quickly consume their slices,
the joy registering in their eyes while they eat.
This is the only reward their Gigi needs.

By the way, remember the secret ingredient mentioned above?
Come close while I whisper . . .
Gigi puts a little of herself in these cakes.
They are filled with her grandmotherly love.
There is no love more special.