Photo by Olga Simonova on Unsplash
Every two minutes she pulls my hands and takes me to the oven window, “Come mama! Come! It’s Rising!”
Her and I have balcony seats to the most amazing theatre ever and the bread loaf in the tin is the star.
She presses her nose to the window pretending it’s a portal.
I pretend it is.
The cake inside is performing, just for her.
While we wait, I tell her stories from my own kitchen beginnings.
We discuss how I once spilled flour all over the floor while sieving it, how I cracked my first egg and let the shell slip in, how my first chocolate cake sank in the middle but my mom was proud anyway.
She giggles at the idea of me being small, of me not knowing.
I see myself in her.
Baking always felt extraordinary to me. The aroma that fills the house when you bake something is heavenly.
I remember coming back from school at 4:00 PM late afternoon. Throwing my bag on one corner I would head straight to the kitchen because mum promised we would bake a cake together. And I would find her there, juggling many tasks while having all ingredients measured out and ready for me to mix together.
Now I wait for my little one in the kitchen. I wait for her so we can make our little project together.
After mixing the batter, she licks the spoon just like I did, like this is a sacred tradition, passed down from generations.
In between the stories, she checks the oven window. Again.
I wipe my hands off a kitchen towel and follow her. Again.
We crouch together and peep through the oven glass. Again.
The pumpkin bread sits quietly inside, taking its time to rise.
It is golden at the edges and we see cracks beginning to form on top.
“It’s rising!”, she squeals with glee.
And I realize… I’m watching something rise too.
Not just the bread.
But, her.
Her curiosity. Her joy.
Her I-Can-Do-This attitude.
Her tiny hands, doing big things.
Her belief that anything is possible.
This is more than baking.
This isn’t just about the pumpkin bread.
It’s about a small ritual we are shaping together.
Maybe one day, she will share these memories with her little ones.
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When the timer finally beeps, I put on my trusted floral yellow gloves and carefully pull the cake out of the oven.
It’s the final act of our star.
My daughter claps like it’s a birthday, declaring, ‘Sharing is caring!’.
And we sing happy birthday to each other for no reason, other than it feels right.
Later we find ourselves in the gallery on a blue rug, surrounded by fluffy cushions and in our pajamas.
We eat the warm slices of bread. Because patience has left the building.
Pumpkin spice is in the air.
If you want to find us, just follow the trail of crumbs.
The whole house smells like cinnamon and vanilla.
And love.
We baked this together, one fine long weekend.
If you would like to bring this little ritual in your kitchen, here’s my our (mine and my daughter’s) recipe.
Years from now, she might forget this recipe. But I hope she remembers us together, shoulder to shoulder, waiting for something to rise in the kitchen and in herself.
Notes From Shivani 