Icing on the Cake

“Don’t look!”

With small hands, I covered my eyes, hoping to hide the fact that they were still open. It may have worked if it wasn’t for my giant smile.

“I said no peaking! It’s a secret!”

We both giggled, knowing full well that I had no intention of obeying commands. My eyes were wide open behind my stubby fingers, spread just enough for me to catch glimpses of my grandma scoop a large heaping of mayonnaise—our family’s secret ingredient—from the jar and plop it into the mixing bowl. There was something exhilarating about witnessing an event that wasn’t intended for your eyes, because then you were suddenly the one with the secret.

She moved, blocking my view of the bowl, as she angled herself between me and the counter, adding a final ingredient before going to the sink. As she rinsed the spoon, she began to say, “Okay. You can open your—”

She stopped short when she turned around to see me standing with my eyes as wide as the saucers under our teacups, and a grin that split my face from ear to ear. With a few teeth missing, I easily resembled Jack-O-Lantern.

“—eyes.” She finished. “You weren’t supposed to look!”

Her thrust hip and crossed arms indicated she was upset, but her smirk and twinkling eyes said otherwise.

“I didn’t!” I lied.

She laughed heartily and tousled my hair.

“What am I going to do with you?” she asked.

“You’re gonna let me eat the whole cake?” I suggested, crossing my fingers in a silent prayer.

This made her laugh even harder, throwing her head back with the effort.

“Nice try! You know this cake is a surprise for Grandpa.”

“I know, but it was worth a shot.” I said, a little disappointed.

After a moment, her laugher ceased and she said more seriously, “You understand that if you should ever find out the secret ingredients, they must stay in the family, don’t you?”

I nodded, sending my curls bouncing.

“Good. They are traditions passed from generation to generation, and each family member has a responsibility to make sure no one outside of the family knows about them. One day when you are older, I will pass our family’s traditions onto you, but you must be patient, sweetheart.”

When she felt she had made her point, we got back to work.

Grandma sifted flour into the bowl with her fingers as I stirred. I watched how the flour emphasized the cracks on her skin like roadmaps to stories only she could tell; and I wanted to hear them all, journeying through the secret streets of her memory.

I adored my grandma and savored days spent with her, believing she was the most interesting person in the entire world. She spun stories together as easily as she wove yarn into blankets and turned boring lumps of clay into dishes at the dinner table. She could explain the science behind how liquid batter transforms into spongey cake in the oven and could list which herbs from her garden were best for tummy aches, colds, and sleep. She was magical and knowledgeable, and I wanted to be just like her when I grew up.

Grandma’s house always seemed to have a warm filter over it, a golden hue to the light as though the memories were dipped in honey. This is how I will always remember her: wearing her floral printed apron and matching oven mitts as she pulls a cake out of the oven, smiling through clouds of sugar dusting the air.

I watched as my grandma frosted the cake, skilled hands expertly gliding the knife across the fudgy surface; and I thought to myself, this is the best day ever.

At that moment, the front door clicked open, and my grandma’s smile flattened into nonexistence.

“I’m home!” Grandpa yelled from the entryway.

He hung up his coat and walked into the kitchen, embracing me in a bear-hug as he kissed the top of my head.

“I hope you had a great day. I—” He stopped mid-sentence when he saw the three-tiered cake worthy of a professional photoshoot with frosting glistening in the sunlight. His train of thought seemed to have left the station without him on board.

“Oooooo! Chocolate cake! My favorite!” My grandpa exclaimed like a schoolboy on a snow day as he sat down at the kitchen table, waiting expectantly for a slice to be served.

My grandma turned to me. “Why don’t you go wash up and put on some clean clothes, sweetheart? You’re covered in so much flour someone may mistake you for a rolling pin.”

“But—”

“No ‘buts.’” She interrupted. “Go upstairs now and get washed up.”

I frowned, but I turned away and started walking toward the staircase. It was no use arguing with a “grown up.” They always thought they knew best because they were older and taller. But Grandma didn’t understand—I wasn’t going to complain about not getting a piece, I was going to ask if I could watch Grandpa try it. Chocolate cake was his absolute favorite, and this was the first time I helped my grandma make it for him. I just wanted to know how he liked it.

I was almost at the top of the stairs when I suddenly stopped, a thought popping into my head: she would never know if I spared a minute to sneak a peek at Grandpa’s reaction as he took his first mouth-watering bite. I was as silent as a lion sneaking up on its prey. The carpet absorbed the noise as I slowly padded back down the stairs, peeking through the opening where the staircase railing met the wall. I had a straight view of the edge of the table where my grandpa sat, licking his lips in anticipation as my grandma slid a piece of chocolate cake in front of him.

Grandpa took the first nibble and then a second, his face lighting up with joy. “This is absolutely delicious! You have outdone yourself this time. Not that you do much any way…”

He chuckled at his own joke, but my grandma didn’t find it funny. She tensed and turned her back to him, carrying dirty dishes just out of my view to the sink. The faucet turned on with a sputter as he gave another moan at the rich chocolatey flavor exploding on his tongue.

“Not too much now, dear. Remember, your cardiologist said to cut back on the sweets after your stroke.” Grandma sounded concerned, but that didn’t stop him from taking another bite, and then another.

He was halfway done with his second slice when he pressed his hand over his heart and contorted his face the way he does after a big meal. He told me once it was called “in-die-jes-ton” and that I can look forward to it when I’m as old as him. I never understood why he said that though. It looked awful, not like something I would ever want to get.

He pushed his plate away and stood up. The effort proved too much. With a sudden cry of pain, he collapsed onto his knees, clutching his chest.

“Help.” He whispered, breathless.

“H-heart.” He struggled to murmur this last word before falling onto his stomach, writhing on the ground in agony.

Grandma stepped over his body, chuckling. “No, dear. It’s not a heart attack. It was the cake.” She bent down so he could see the smile on her face. “I put a little something special in it just for you.”

She whispered something else in his ear, but I was too far away to hear what she said.

I was frozen, watching the events unfold without being able to move a single muscle. I was no longer a lion, but a deer gazing into headlights, oblivious as to the oncoming collision.

A lone tear escaped, slipping down my grandpa’s cheek before plopping onto the tile. He knew his fate was sealed tighter than the lids on Grandma’s homemade jam. After a couple more convulsions, he exhaled, body sinking into the floor like a deflated balloon. His eyes lolled back so only the whites were showing. All was quiet. He was no longer moving.

That was the first time I witnessed a murder.

The next time, I would be the murderer.

___________

Below are some fantastic chocolate cake recipes from Vocal contributors. They looked good enough to die for, so I thought I would share some in honor of this challenge.

Pick your poison: