Confectioner's Sugar

White powdery specks sprinkle liltingly down from the sky as if a giant baker wielding a flour sifter stands above us decorating the filthy soot covered snowbanks with a fresh white layer of confectioner's sugar. Sometimes the fallout is heavy, sometimes light, sometimes non-existent.

It reminds me of when I was in junior high school and we girls helped Mom with the weekend baking. We gathered in the spacious kitchen of 407 South William Street, the grand old manse we managed to occupy from stem to stern.

I was most familiar with the linoleum floor in the kitchen, having spent regular scrubbing sessions on top of it. I still prefer hands and knees to mops, loathing the dirty corners and unkempt appearance of under counters that mops refuse to address.

In the middle of the huge room stood a wobbly chrome and gray table upon which we spread our necessary ingredients for the making of a cake from scratch. No box mixes for us, no sir. They were expensive for a poor preacher's family with six children. We followed the Betty Crocker recipe straight from within the red checkerboard covers of the worn volume, ticking down the list to make sure we had enough of everything before we began. Milk, flour, sugar, eggs, baking powder, baker's chocolate, vanilla.

While one sister managed the ingredients, the other brought forth mixing bowls, measuring spoons, spatulas, aprons, baking pans - all the accouterments for putting together this delicate confection. Younger sisters looked on, sitting in high chairs or peeking over the edge of the table, their noses barely visible. Obnoxious traffic underfoot for the elder sister just trying to get done so she could race outdoors and play with friends.

Soon you could hear the clinking of spoons and the tapping of beaters as the separate ingredients were duly measured and added in just the right order, just the right way. Don't beat too much. Don't beat too little. Make sure the eggs don't include any shell pieces. No, doubling the vanilla will not help. Don't burn the chocolate while you are melting it in the top of a double boiler pan (remember them?). At long last, after a good hour of fussing, the liquid brown ambrosia was ready to pour into the carefully greased and floured 9 inch round baking pans and tuck into the oven, set at precisely 350 degrees.

Then the begging by the younger set began. Its my turn to lick the bowl. You got it last time. Give me the left beater, it has more on it. Set the timer and go play. Before you realize it, the most mouthwatering smell calls you back to the kitchen. Pull open the oven door, slide the rack out, press your index finger into the spongy cake. It springs back! The edges are pulled away from the pan and golden brown. Never mind the broomstraw test - its done!

The hardest part was waiting until it was cool enough to either frost or sift confectioner's sugar over the top. Even though frosting was the favored topping, I liked the confectioner's sugar better. Less gooey, and it enhanced rather than smothered the flavor of the chocolate. The best part was Sunday afternoon after the roast beef and potatoes, after the carrots and rolls. Then came the perfect slice of chocolate cake adorned with a white powdery sifting of sugar so fine you could barely tell it apart from the cake other than by color. Yum, yum.