The recipe amused her: “As this homey dessert bakes…” It was appropriate, in an overdone kind of way. He had been gone for just over a year. He would appreciate a little care package.
The scoop whuffed a small puff of flour onto her mother’s old cookbook. When she cooked, her mother’s memory was close. She could almost hear her voice.
“Sissy, get all the ingredients together before you start cooking,” it chided. Fine.
Sugar. Eggs. Baking powder. Metal file. Chocolate. Vanilla.
Her son called from the other room. “Mommy, when will Daddy come home?”
“Soon, baby. Real soon.”