If you peeked through the lace curtains
Last night, into the small Chautauquan kitchen
You would have seen an Aunt, a daughter and a grandmother
Standing around the stove watching the cake rise through the oven light.

As the timer dings and they open the door
Out wafts the sucrose smell of baked strawberries
In comes the jubilation of successfully assembling dessert
From the leftover almost rottenly sweet fruit.

Sitting in the refrigerator the berries turn the color of oxblood
Deepening to a red so black it’s like it has been dipped in the darkest chocolate.
As they remove the cake from the middle rack, the daughter
Leans over to sniff the inside of the oven for the leftover scent of raw cake.

Undeterred by the possibility of failure, these pioneering women
In the art of baking lower the cake the cooling rack and wait
As each molecule settles over each other, coating the fruit in a casing of moist ca
And they wait and wait for it to cool and then take their first bite.

Delectable.