The recipe was in my mother’s
perfect handwriting, each letter looking
exactly like the ones in our copybook—

the right height to the t, the little hills
of the m’s and the n’s, the r—which always
reminded me of the stump of a tree.

The dry ingredients, on the left side
of the card, were joined together
with a sharp-nosed bracket:

sugar, flour, cocoa powder, baking soda,
salt. The bracket said sift until
a dusky mountain rises in the big bowl,

form a crater at the top of the mountain
and measure out the following ingredients
(another bracket): whole milk, vinegar,

and—of course—the gold Mazola oil,
which would float, briefly, like a jewel in
the souring milk and wash through

the cocoa-flour mountain like a tidal
wave. The next instructions were precise:
beat fifty strokes with a large spoon—do not

over-beat. Pour into pan which has been
greased and floured. Run knife through
the batter to prevent air bubbles; bake

at 350 until the cake springs back
when you press your finger (very lightly)
on the dark brown surface. Cool.