Five Years a Writer

My mother has never been a baker. She did go through a phase of making cherry biscuits, from a recipe of her sister’s, I believe, and she always made us birthday cakes, but routine baking for dessert was not her thing.   Which is why, one day in the early 70s, my older sister and younger brother and I found ourselves sharing one Mars bar — one, between the three of us — for dessert. It was terribly important that it be divided equally so, of course, the eldest took it upon herself to perform the task. With almost mathematical precision (could she possibly have used a ruler?), Katy cut the bar into three pieces. One for each of us. Competition among us was healthy, so the game became who could make that small piece of heavenly sweetness last the longest?  Not me, it turns out. I scarfed mine down in a couple of happy bites. It was Katy who made it last well into the afternoon by cutting off impossibly thin slices and letting them melt on her tongue. I don't recall how Charl