Recipe/Poem by Mia Shackelford

Once again trying

(preheat oven to 375.

Butter pan.)

To prove responsibility

Wanting to taste ambrosia-

(4 oz. chocolate, chopped coarsely)

domestic Goddess status

(melt in double boiler, with

one stick

of butter)

There is something

(Stirring until smooth)

concealed here,

( Remove from heat, whisk in

¾ cup sugar)

As inherently correct

As chocolate melting

(don’t taste yet)

one stagnant

strand of stereotype

(three Eggs, whisk well)

I embrace

Housewife, priestess, mother, witch

( Sift

one-half cup of cocoa

over mixture, whisk

once again)

I am none

But I feel like my own

sifted,whisked, prodded, heated

Batter of female prototypes

As I complete

(Bake approximately

twenty-five minutes)

this not-a-task

hoisting myself

up a womanly pedestal

As I laboriously

Mix and move,

Lift, sift, serve-

Oops!

The wobbly,

fragile beauty

Of a

Cake crumbles

So I crumple

Back into the body

Of a modern teenager

Exorcised by my clumsiness

From the

Muscled, gleaming

Skin

Of goddesses and

19th century babushkas

(who wouldn’t know a double-boiler

if it struck them in the tushkes)

I make an unhopeful

Note

on that sullied recipe

And,

weeks later,

hallelujah!

I pour

The dusky batter

Into well-greased

Madeleine molds

(my mother, in a fit of

wisdom, threw out the

cupcake tins)

I watch through

An oven door

Stained with decades of

Mishaps and over eager

Sauces

Other women

Girls, men, boys

Have stood with craning

Necks

Straining

Eyes

Hopefully

Watching as what they create

Swells and grows

Until they come out,

With much furor

Almost glowing and burning

Through the potholder

I wait for them to cool

And they slide

Out of the molds

Gracefully, or

As gracefully as a chocolate

Madeline- Cake can

I add another, more joyous

Note

To the bottom of the

Crinkled, wrinkled,

Stained and smeared

Recipe

That started out so heavenly pure

If naïve

Photographs Taken by Amelia Evard

Poem With Quatrains by Maggie Shepherd

A knock on the door revealed

Twelve cloaked dwarfs and a cloaked wizard,

Barging and bustling to my table expectantly.

Bemused, I took the kettle and shuffled out teacups.

Then the wizard grimaced and inserted,

“I will not drink that tea, only coffee will do for me.”

A little shaken, I surveyed the sea of beards.

I pursed my lips, shook my head, and brought out the shortcake.