The sharp clattering of utensils echoes in our kitchen. My eyes barely see past the countertop as I stretch on all toes to peek a glimpse.

“Watch your fingers,” Mom warns as she glides a chair over to the counter so I can watch.  

As I scan the surface. Scattered ingredients clutter the counter: slabs of soft, spongy pound cake. Plastic containers of ripe, red raspberries. A semi-defrosted pack of frozen raspberries that leave behind a trail of condensation. A pint-sized carton of freshly chilled whipping cream ready to be mixed into an airy delight.

The towering mixing machine is dropped onto the counter. My mom untwists the metal bowl, and places it in front of me. One-by-one, she hands me every pre-measured ingredient.

With a push of the button, the machine spins a soft hum. Then, the white liquid substance transforms into a light and fluffy masterpiece.

My mom carries over a glass trifle that in a few moments will burst with sweet and sour perfection. My mom and I carefully layer pieces of pound cake followed by lip-puckering, raspberry juice.

After the juice soaks the cake, a thick layer of whipped cream spreads across the trifle as fresh raspberries are sprinkled atop. Layer by layer, the dish is filled and topped with a dash of cocoa powder.

Since that day, trifle has been present at 12 neighborhood gatherings, five birthdays, seven work outings, and requests continued to pour in—everyone trying to get their share of Mom’s masterpiece.

And on my 18th birthday, when I crossed from a child into an adult, my mom emerged from the kitchen holding the sweet and sour treat whose taste had begun to fade from my  memory—raspberry trifle.