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| While the origins of pineapple upside-down cake are debated, most food historians date the popular cake to the 1920s. Early versions were baked on the stovetop in a skillet. | Photo Credit: Kimberly Vardeman |
By Jordan Pringle
Mom was anything but selfish when it came to her enticing blueberry muffins, warm apple pies and fresh pound cakes. My sister and I would rush home after school because we knew our snacks were waiting for us on the white-tiled kitchen table. They were just as permanent as the peeling leafy-patterned wallpaper. Sitting on wooden stools, swinging our legs and smiling across the table at each other, we devoured every last crumb. It was my everyday life and I never imagined that it would change.
Years went by, we all got older, and before I realized it, the days of after-school sugar cookies became more rare. Eventually, my mother baked only on weekends. And as she actually did it in front of us, the treats became less magical yet more mysterious. Not once did she use the Pillsbury cookie mix I saw advertised on television or the generic cake mix on the shelves at Pathmark. I watched as she created edible masterpieces from scratch, each tweak of the recipe recorded on a little notepad. The flour that saturated the worn wooden countertop never completely came off, even after excessive wiping. Butter would bubble in the glass measuring cup after being melted in the microwave, and sugar would find a way to harmonize with the milk and eggs. The best part would be the gloppy, gooey, but oh-so-heavenly golden batter.
“Every spongy pound cake is my sister and me getting fussed at after we trampled into the kitchen and trying to grab a treat before first going to wash our hands. The memories are sweeter than the sugar could ever be.”
Before there were three daughters in the house, my mother found it easy to evenly dispense the metal beaters from the mixer, and we licked them clean. When my third sister was old enough to want some too, my mother changed the rule to first come, first serve for the beaters, the bowl and the spoon. This meant we all sat eagerly around the table as she baked, clamoring to be first. Possibly for self-serving motives, we started helping, to speed up the process. If I knew we would grow up so fast and things would change so quickly, I never would have rushed through those precious family moments.Mom had baking rules. No jumping while the cake was in the oven, no sticking fingers in the batter. The first rule had the entire family tiptoeing around the kitchen. The second one we never really followed. Our fingers sneaked into the batter every time we anticipated Mom blinking. Once, when our parents were heading home from work and my sisters and I were in the house alone, we found Mom’s recipe notepad and baked without her assistance. Following step by step, the three of us made a rich, creamy, batter and a crazy, sticky, mess. Flour and sprinkles covered us, the floor and the countertop. And we stuck our fingers in the batter so often that when our parents came home we were too full to eat the few cupcakes that actually made it out of the oven. Mom was furious. My father just laughed and laughed. The grand canyons in our cupcakes showed we were jumping around a lot too.
Years have gone by, and I’m in college now. My sister has moved out, and my youngest sister is too cool to stay home instead of going out with her friends. My mother, craving a more health-conscious lifestyle, indulges in less butter, bread, and salt while my dad follows suit to keep her content. I cherish the holidays so much more than I used to now that nothing is the same. Every piece of pie is like a slice of an asthma-triggering race home with my sister from the bus stop down the block on sunny days after fourth grade. Every fingertip of cake icing is me banging on the front door after I had won that race and falling into my living room when my mom opened the front door. Every spongy pound cake is my sister and me getting fussed at after we trampled into the kitchen and trying to grab a treat before first going to wash our hands. The memories are sweeter than the sugar could ever be.
Last time I went home, I begged my mother to stop working for a second and help me bake a pineapple upside-down cake for my boyfriend the night before his birthday. As bothered as she may have seemed by my interrupting her productivity, I swear I saw a smile creep onto her face when she pulled out her yellow notepad and squinted to decipher the faded pencil notes. This was the first time we had done this in years. I am rarely home, and my mother has been promoted, making her less available as well. As I forced her to relive the past, I think she recalled the times when baking with me happened naturally. Reminiscing was bittersweet for both of us. We worked slowly and silently, but happily. And when she turned to grab the cake pan from the cabinet, I stuck my finger in the batter.
Jordan Pringle is a senior at Rutgers majoring in journalism and media studies with a minor in psychology.
