I ’ ve sniffed out friends with their own sweet addiction . A friend since meeting in sixth grade at Park View Middle School , Tamoura had the same inclination as I did as we dug into sticky stacks of dough with pistachios and trays of baklava her father would bring back after visiting his Lebanese family in Canada . Seems we ’ ve grown up together in pursuit , easing into coffee with peppermint mochas from Cafe Zog as we trudged down Wickenden Street in the cold or doctoring up already-flavored iced coffees from Cafe International with biscotti and bagels to-go on the way to East Matunuck Beach . Over the years we ’ ve had coconut cakes and black Americanos in Charleston . Cuban coffee and flan in Miami . Pumpkin lattes and croissants from a French bakery in Seattle . Flat whites and pastries in Australia . Pina coladas made with ice cream on the beach in Fiji . Wherever we meet , finding that sweet buzz is always top priority .
And during our days at Cranston East High School , Alyssa and I would spend a sizable portion of our minimum wage paychecks on ice cream . The summers meant near-daily trips to Sundaes , and to visit her sister at an ice cream shop up in Warwick for new flavor testing . Even in the winter , her mom would lay out toppings for an ice cream bar on their countertop , before we ’ d huddle into their cozy family room to watch a documentary . Alyssa made her way to Wake Forest , North Carolina , with her husband and three girls , and I ’ m usually greeted after an hours-long drive to visit with a goblet of red wine and cookies , followed by muffins in the morning . Thankfully , at some point in our friendship , we both took up long-distance running ; I ’ d like to think it offsets the sweet quota .
To grow up in Cranston is to know what it ’ s like to live life at the whim of the weather , to pine for sunshine while surviving the doldrums of gray days and blustery cold that sets in after Thanksgiving , and all too often lasts through Easter . Those memories of buzzing with caffeine and ignoring that sickly-sweet stomachache , they stand out because they broke up the monotony with a sweet ritual and created time to be jammed-in together in too-small houses in the winter or sprawled out in big yards in the summer .
And though I left Rhode Island long ago , the ritual of taking time out of a normal day for something decadent is the most comforting tradition that reminds me of home . So , I search for that jolt of sugar in the bloodstream , the clenched jaw from excessive caffeine . I do what I can to impose my rituals on others . In quarantine , I ( along with the rest of the country according to Instagram ) took up baking in earnest : taking advantage of farm-fresh strawberries for birthday cakes and Easter buttermilk biscuits ; turning a ton of lemons and an empty afternoon into shaker tarts and citrusy blueberry cake for socially distant views of the sunset over the water ; crushing walnuts for rugelach cookies to commemorate the anniversary of a friend ’ s mom ’ s passing . And with every metallic brush of my KitchenAid against its bowl , with every leveling of a cup of brown sugar , anticipatory glimpse into the oven , sampling of the batter , I understand the love of the process , and the love in handing out something special as a bright spot in something bleak .
As for the Bake-Off cake , if you ’ re wondering , I still make it today . Most recently , for my best friend as she welcomed her baby girl , Olivia , home after delivery , just a few weeks before our worlds went haywire . The recipe was given to my best college friend at her wedding shower . I ’ ve made it for at least a few boys I ’ ve liked . I baked it with my cousins , virtually , after our grandfather died . We squinted and texted each other for help making out the words in Gram ’ s curlicue handwriting , “ does that say ‘ cut like a pie ’?” “ what kind of pan are we supposed to use ?!” This cake , like most sweets , it seems , is my connector — a memory maker , and a device I can use to transport myself back to my Gram ’ s Cranston kitchen , that rich smell of almond extract , and rust-orange linoleum under my feet , her gravelly voice giving me my next instruction . �
RHODE ISLAND MONTHLY l FEBRUARY 2022 57