I let my mother bake the cake, which could be a treat, but she halves the sugar, substitutes oil with applesauce, skips the salt — even after I preach the science of flavor, texture, electrolytes, absorption; the science of necessary evils. From my countertop perch, I offer an egg, tell her it’s pasture raised, from a friend, and will not bring the world — or her — to its knees. She tucks the egg back into its tea towel swaddle, whips up flaxseed froth instead. She insists on doing something good for me, for my birthday. I know this cake will not rise.
Sara Delheimer is a science writer based in Nashville. In her spare time, she writes about home, communication, and nature.