When we picked all the pears from our tree a few weeks ago, I put up a few bags for the freezer. My mama makes this pear cake with caramel icing that is famously her very best dessert (besides bread pudding). I knew I would have to learn the recipe to make the cake when Lucy came home from the hospital, and last night I tried it for the first time. The thing is, mama was in the French Caribbean and I didn't have a chance to run out to their house in the country and dig through her cookbooks to find it. So I called daddy and asked him to text me a picture of the recipe.
Well that was a bust.
So he, annoyed, told me to just get a paper and pencil. And I wrote down the recipe. And Clark, Ben, Amanda and I listened on speakerphone, cracking up imagining him being this master baker while he told me, matter of factly:
"2.5 cups of flour.."
"Self rising or all-purpose?"
"Baby, I'm reading exactly what it says. How am I supposed to know? Just write it down."
"2 cups of beaten eggs."
"No. Not cups. Just eggs!"
And so on.
At the top of the paper, I wrote: Daddy's Famous Pear Cake.
Generations down the line someone will find my joke and say, "That Phil Rasberry knew how to make a fine pear cake."
I'd share the recipe with you, but then I'd have to kill you.
Later, I went running even though I felt too tired. And I'm so glad I did. It was just so beautiful outside.