“Because she knew you,” Mae Yí-Pó says kindly.
“I guess some things never change,” I say, shaking my head with a laugh.
Colette laughs along with me as she opens the oven door. “This is ready,” she says, removing a clean toothpick from the center of the cake.
“She waited all afternoon until you came back on your own time,” Mae Yí-Pó explains, lifting the sheet tray out of the oven with mitts.
“Was she mad that I had just disappeared?” I ask, the smell of vanilla permeating the air.
Mae Yí-Pó waves her hands. “She could never stay mad at you for long. You’d come sometimes, too, Colette.”
“What did we love making most?” Colette asks.
“Swiss rolls,” Mae Yí-Pó says with a wink. “You always wanted to make an entire roll to bring back to your family. Your Pó Po said it was the best cake she had ever eaten.”
After letting the cake cool slightly, Mae Yí-Pó delicately pushes the warm cake into a parchment-covered log. “It’s all about the pre-roll,” she says, tiptoeing her fingers skillfully along the edges. “This gives the cake its shape so that when it cools, it’s still flexible.”
“So that’s the secret,” I mumble. “I could never get that right.”
“It just requires a little guidance, patience, and a light touch,” Mae Yí-Pó replies.
While we wait for the cake to drop in temperature, we fall into silence, moving around one another as we wash the workspace clean with damp rags. Once the drips of batter have been wiped from the counters and the mixing bowls and testing spoons are loaded into the dishwasher, we’re ready to fill and reroll.
I smile to myself about the resurfaced memories as I spread lightly sweet filling over the golden center. The edges of the cake slightly curl, the parchment paper crinkled beneath it.
“All yours,” Mae Yí-Pó says, gesturing for me to do the final roll.
I slowly turn the cake onto itself as filling spills out over the spiraled edges. Colette sprinkles our creation with powdered sugar, and Mae Yí-Pó cuts the treat into slices.
“To June Huang,” Mae Yí-Pó says. We take bites of the Swiss roll. “Mmm.”
“These are always so much better right out of the oven,” Colette says between mouthfuls.
The airy cake comforts me. “It’s the best one yet. Do you think Pó Po would like it?” I ask.
Mae Yí-Pó takes a second bite. “She’d absolutely love it,” she says, wrapping her arm around me. “Never forget that, no matter what happens, your Pó Po is watching over you, just like she always has, and she’s very proud of you, just as she always has been.”
I slowly nod to acknowledge Mae Yí-Pó and what she’s saying. The creamy Swiss roll filling coats my tongue as I swallow down a fresh batch of tears.
Chapter 22
She wants it to be what?” Nina asks, sounding as shocked, sad, and defeated as everyone else. She and Asher have joined us at Mom and Dad’s house, having been able to cancel their honeymoon with a partial refund.
We’re in the thick of coordinating Pó Po’s funeral with Uncle Rupert on speakerphone contributing his thoughts. It’s been a few days since Pó Po passed but there’s a lot of planning to do.
“Fun,” Mom says. “Her words.”
In the kitchen, I skin an apple pear and slice it, dividing the halves into quarters, the quarters into smaller pieces. I set the bowl of fruit and a handful of forks on the table when Auntie joins us bearing two bouquets and a pastry box.
“Mae Yí-Pó dropped by. This one’s for the family,” Auntie says, placing one flower-filled vase on the kitchen counter. “And these are for you. Apparently someone came by the bakery to see if Mae Yí-Pó could get these to you.”
Auntie gives me a wink as she hands me a vase stuffed with pink peonies and the box.
I tentatively accept them.
“It’s from Asshole, isn’t it?” Nina murmurs, wiggling her eyebrows.
“It’s probably from Alisha and Randall or something,” I murmur, even when I know it isn’t. Alisha and Randall brought flowers over yesterday.
