When snakes bake cakes

Sid was a snake. Sid had: No arms. No legs. No hands. No fingers. No thumbs. Thumbs are considered quite important in baking. Sid did not have any.

This was not going to stop Sid.

It had started with the smell. The smell from next door. Warm and sweet and buttery and the specific kind of wonderful that makes you stop whatever you are doing and follow your nose whether you intended to or not.

Mrs. Pepper next door had been baking. Mrs. Pepper was seventy three years old and had been baking since before baking was fashionable and would continue long after. She had given Sid a slice.

Sid had eaten it in the way snakes eat things — slowly and with complete commitment.

"I would like to make this," said Sid. Mrs. Pepper looked at Sid. At the scales. At the complete absence of arms. "Baking," said Mrs. Pepper carefully, "requires hands." "I have a tail," said Sid. Mrs. Pepper considered this. "You do," she said.

She lent Sid a bowl. A wooden spoon. A recipe card written in large letters because Mrs. Pepper had done this for her grandchildren and the principle seemed transferable.

Sid read the recipe. Step one: Crack two eggs.

Sid looked at the eggs. Sid looked at the tail.

The first egg did not crack. It flew across the kitchen and hit the wall which was not in the recipe. The second egg cracked perfectly mostly into the bowl and partly onto Sid which was acceptable. The third egg Sid had not been planning to use but was now necessary given the situation with the first egg.

Step two: Mix butter and sugar.

Sid wrapped the tail around the wooden spoon. This worked surprisingly well. The butter and sugar went round and round. Sid went round and round with them which was not strictly necessary but felt right.

Step three: Add flour slowly.

Sid added the flour. Not slowly. The kitchen went white. Sid went white. The recipe card went white. Everything was white for a moment in a way that was technically not what slowly means.

Sid looked at the recipe card. The recipe card looked back from under the flour.

Slowly, said the recipe card. In large letters. Which Sid could now read very clearly through the flour.

Step four: Pour into tin and bake.

Sid looked at the tin. Sid looked at the bowl. The tail could mix. The tail could stir. Pouring was a different problem.

Sid thought about this for quite a long time.

Then Sid picked up the bowl with the tail tipped it slowly over the tin and moved in a long careful arc the way only snakes can move — all the way around and back — and the batter went in. Mostly.

Mostly was enough.

The tin went in the oven. Sid sat on the kitchen floor. Covered in flour. Covered in a small amount of egg. Covered in the specific satisfaction of someone who has attempted something difficult and is not yet sure how it turned out.

The kitchen smelled warm and sweet and buttery.

The timer went off. Sid opened the oven. The cake was: Slightly lopsided. Golden on one side. A little pale on the other. With a small crater in the middle that had not been in the recipe.

Sid looked at it for a long time.

It was not Mrs. Pepper's cake. It was not the cake in the picture on the recipe card. It was not the cake Sid had imagined at the start of this entire enterprise.

It was Sid's cake. Made with a tail and two and a half eggs and a considerable amount of flour in the wrong places.

Sid cut a slice. Ate it the way snakes eat things — slowly and with complete commitment.

It tasted like: Butter. Sugar. Effort. And something else that doesn't have a name but lives in things you made yourself in spite of everything.

Sid knocked on Mrs. Pepper's door. Held out a slice. Mrs. Pepper looked at the slice. At the crater. At the pale side. At the slight lean to the left. She took a bite.

She looked at Sid. "You made this?" "Mostly," said Sid.

Mrs. Pepper ate the rest of the slice. "Next time," she said, "slowly means slowly." "I know," said Sid. "And crack the eggs into the bowl not at the wall." "I know," said Sid. "And —" "I know," said Sid.

Mrs. Pepper smiled. "Good," she said. "Come back Tuesday. We'll make another one."

Sid went home. Looked at the kitchen. The flour was still everywhere. The wall still had egg on it. The recipe card was still white.

Sid picked up the recipe card. Read it again. Step one: Crack two eggs.

Slowly this time, thought Sid.

Tuesday couldn't come fast enough.