Grandma puts the cake on the table
then retreats to the hot kitchen.
Feeling the stress of Christmas catering,
she can’t witness the cake being cut.
She gathered the fruits in their seasons,
carefully dried them and set them aside.
Then, on a cold and bitter January day
she mixed and baked the holiday loaf.
Her creation dwelled in dry darkness
of brown paper and an airtight tin.
Fruit, eggs, nuts and drops of whiskey
maturing and growing full flavour.
On Christmas Eve, she unwrapped the paper
and searched cake’s surface for flaws.
She spread a thick layer of almond paste,
then a snow-white crown of icing.
Eldest grandson has a duty.
Before the opening of presents,
he stands on a chair in the pantry
and rummages for the special platter
that sees daylight once a year.
When found, it’s dusted, washed and dried
and graced with a large white doily
before the cake is carefully placed on top.
The knife is thrust downward
and back to make the first cut.
Turn the cake around, slice it again
and the moment of truth has arrived.
Grandma’s ears are alert as she waits
to hear diners assess her skill.
She grips eldest grandson’s shoulders,
prays the centre will be good and firm,
the cake moist and full of rich flavour.
About the auhtor
Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English.
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