Back in February, Mallorie felt anxious thinking about the fact that the bare pear trees in Mammaw’s yard would be heavy with ripe pears in August. And that would mean Lucy would be here. I remember that being the thing that made it real to her. Imminent.
When we picked all the pears from our tree a few weeks ago, I put up a few bags for the freezer. My mama makes this pear cake with caramel icing that is famously her very best dessert (besides bread pudding). I knew I would have to learn the recipe to make the cake when Lucy came home from the hospital, and last night I tried it for the first time. The thing is, mama was in the French Caribbean and I didn’t have a chance to run out to their house in the country and dig through her cookbooks to find it. So I called daddy and asked him to text me a picture of the recipe.
Well that was a bust.
So he, annoyed, told me to just get a paper and pencil. And I wrote down the recipe. And Clark, Ben, Amanda and I listened on speakerphone, cracking up imagining him being this master baker while he told me, matter of factly:
“2.5 cups of flour..”
“Self rising or all-purpose?”
“Baby, I’m reading exactly what it says. How am I supposed to know? Just write it down.”
“2 cups of beaten eggs.”
“No. Not cups. Just eggs!”
And so on.
At the top of the paper, I wrote: Daddy’s Famous Pear Cake.
Generations down the line someone will find my joke and say, “That Phil Rasberry knew how to make a fine pear cake.”
I’d share the recipe with you, but then I’d have to kill you.
Later, I went running even though I felt too tired. And I’m so glad I did. It was just so beautiful outside.