father’s death at all. She should be baking funeral cookies or something equally as demure, more appropriate for mourning. She knew that Selma and Mary Margaret would see to Ruth’s house being filled with foods for the gathering after the funeral, but Junie needed to bake. She also knew that she could no sooner bake a dessert that didn’t match her father’s love of sweets than she could accept that he was gone and she’d never see him again. A dark chocolate caramel cake seemed the perfect Band-Aid for her pain.
Junie held the warm cream above the caramel, holding the measuring cup at arm’s length and turning her head before pouring it in. She cringed as she twisted her wrist, anticipating the hot splatter that would follow. Junie loved making caramel, but she feared the burn that she’d experienced the first time she’d disregarded the advice to turn her face. She reached up and touched the dip in her skin where the splatter had left its mark.
Next, she added the butter and stirred until it was well blended. Her nightmares fell away with each added ingredient. She tucked the bowl into the refrigerator, moving in smooth procession from one task to the next.
She greased the pans, focusing on the spread of the Crisco as the white disappeared into a clear film before her eyes, reminding her of how easily Ellen had disappeared. She wondered if Ellen had been there, would she be up in the middle of the night baking alongside Junie, comforting her? She’d like to think so. Junie boiled water, then poured it over unsweetened cocoa powder in a small bowl, whisking it until it formed smooth chocolate.
She thought of her father, hanging over her shoulder while she baked, waiting for his turn to taste her creation. A lump formed in her throat. She whisked harder, faster, as if she could whisk away her longing to see him one more time. She wiped a tear from her eye with her forearm and set the bowl down, mixing the other ingredients in a separate bowl and wishing she’d splurged on the stand mixer for her mother’s house.
Junie beat the butter and sugar, thinking of Brian and the way he’d pushed for an emotionally unstable diagnosis for Sarah. How could he do that? She cracked the eggs one at a time, plopping them into the mixture, added a splash of vanilla, and mixed until her arm ached.
Sarah hadn’t asked to be different. Why did everyone feel a need to magnify her issues with a quick diagnosis rather than a valid one? Junie lowered herself into a chair, the bowl in her lap. Flour and sugar decorated her sweats. She looked outside. The sun had yet to rise, but the dark of night was lifting. She closed her eyes against the image of Ellen’s face. She pushed herself up from the table, setting the bowl on the countertop. What was happening to her? Was this what happened when you lost someone you loved—problems grew so large that you could barely breathe? She had to pull herself together—get the confusion out of her system. How could she face her mother—and her father’s funeral—with all that stuff wallowing around in her head? She wished she had someone to talk to. Damn it, Brian . If only she were back home and it was a more reasonable time, then at least she could talk to Shane. She debated calling him now, then thought better of it. No need to upset him, too.
Junie eyed a bag of pecans on a shelf. She grabbed the bag, turning it over in her hands, then took a rolling pin from the drawer. She smoothed a clean baking cloth on the counter, spread a thin layer of pecans on the cloth, then pulled the cloth over the top. Junie leaned the weight of her frustrations onto the rolling pin, crushing the pecans with a satisfying crunch .
“Yeah, that feels good,” she whispered to herself. “You think I’m going nuts just because I see my missing friend? We’ll see about that,” she said to no one. She pushed and rolled the wooden pin until the pecans were broken into tiny bits.
The morning sun peeked
Junie held the warm cream above the caramel, holding the measuring cup at arm’s length and turning her head before pouring it in. She cringed as she twisted her wrist, anticipating the hot splatter that would follow. Junie loved making caramel, but she feared the burn that she’d experienced the first time she’d disregarded the advice to turn her face. She reached up and touched the dip in her skin where the splatter had left its mark.
Next, she added the butter and stirred until it was well blended. Her nightmares fell away with each added ingredient. She tucked the bowl into the refrigerator, moving in smooth procession from one task to the next.
She greased the pans, focusing on the spread of the Crisco as the white disappeared into a clear film before her eyes, reminding her of how easily Ellen had disappeared. She wondered if Ellen had been there, would she be up in the middle of the night baking alongside Junie, comforting her? She’d like to think so. Junie boiled water, then poured it over unsweetened cocoa powder in a small bowl, whisking it until it formed smooth chocolate.
She thought of her father, hanging over her shoulder while she baked, waiting for his turn to taste her creation. A lump formed in her throat. She whisked harder, faster, as if she could whisk away her longing to see him one more time. She wiped a tear from her eye with her forearm and set the bowl down, mixing the other ingredients in a separate bowl and wishing she’d splurged on the stand mixer for her mother’s house.
Junie beat the butter and sugar, thinking of Brian and the way he’d pushed for an emotionally unstable diagnosis for Sarah. How could he do that? She cracked the eggs one at a time, plopping them into the mixture, added a splash of vanilla, and mixed until her arm ached.
Sarah hadn’t asked to be different. Why did everyone feel a need to magnify her issues with a quick diagnosis rather than a valid one? Junie lowered herself into a chair, the bowl in her lap. Flour and sugar decorated her sweats. She looked outside. The sun had yet to rise, but the dark of night was lifting. She closed her eyes against the image of Ellen’s face. She pushed herself up from the table, setting the bowl on the countertop. What was happening to her? Was this what happened when you lost someone you loved—problems grew so large that you could barely breathe? She had to pull herself together—get the confusion out of her system. How could she face her mother—and her father’s funeral—with all that stuff wallowing around in her head? She wished she had someone to talk to. Damn it, Brian . If only she were back home and it was a more reasonable time, then at least she could talk to Shane. She debated calling him now, then thought better of it. No need to upset him, too.
Junie eyed a bag of pecans on a shelf. She grabbed the bag, turning it over in her hands, then took a rolling pin from the drawer. She smoothed a clean baking cloth on the counter, spread a thin layer of pecans on the cloth, then pulled the cloth over the top. Junie leaned the weight of her frustrations onto the rolling pin, crushing the pecans with a satisfying crunch .
“Yeah, that feels good,” she whispered to herself. “You think I’m going nuts just because I see my missing friend? We’ll see about that,” she said to no one. She pushed and rolled the wooden pin until the pecans were broken into tiny bits.
The morning sun peeked
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