The Oven Keeper

Olivia Vale loved to make round cakes. Often they were spongey; some sparsely frosted. The whole process engaged her: She loved using her vintage electric mixer—its silvery attachments vibrated through eggs and heavy cream. One afternoon she whipped up a tres leche cake. Its little floury air bubbles soaked in milk overnight. Olivia made a pineapple upside-down cake on another day. Each fleshy pineapple slice curled around a glazed Maraschino. Cakes offered Olivia a delectable end to a mediocre day.

Further, as a divorced 34 year old, cake baking was a good antidote to pandemic loneliness. She often devoured over a piece per day—consuming the whole pan within a week. Even though Olivia had no children to give extra slices to, she longed for a baby. Olivia had some money saved from years she worked as a personal assistant. Despite its inevitable hassles, Olivia contemplated an agency adoption. Adoption was cheaper than being a gestational carrier and didn’t involve petri dishes. Yet deep down, she secretly longed to give birth.

A solo birthing process seemed challenging and yet soul-fulfilling. It was hard for Olivia to completely wrap her mind around it. Her ex-husband Peter was incapable of fulfilling Olivia’s maternal desires, which eventually led to their divorce. The closest they had come to children was sponsoring a fresh air kid one summer. She remembered taking Jamal to Block Island and Martha’s Vineyard; they cruised around on rented bicycles, ran through marsh grasses and explored rocky jetties. Jamal was enthralled by the foreign New England terrain—his first exposure to blackberry picking, saltbox houses and sugar cones.

Somehow Olivia knew that better days were again within reach. Late at night, after cleansing her face with rosewater, she plumped her goose-feather pillow and settled in. Classical music propelled her into a peaceful state. Olivia scrolled through her Bumble matches on her iPhone. Then she gazed with fervor down her Instagram feed for specialty baby shower cakes and booties. She made special lists, i.e., “eco baby gear,” “crocheted onesies,” and “homemade baby food.”

One snowy February day, Olivia made a specialty cake. It involved piping buttercream frosting with a yellowish “gender-neutral” color. She made a frosted baby duck on top, and put her late grandmother’s fancy platter beneath cake. “How strange,” she thought— to be making a shower cake, sans shower. But there was something strangely satisfying about the experience.

Later in the week, Olivia noticed a little rust accumulation inside her kitchen oven. Though not overly problematic, it occurred to Olivia that she’d be suited for an upgrade. Finding the ideal oven for cake making was a fun challenge. She drove to a local Mom and Pop appliance shop, masked herself, and perused several models. A half hour later, she found an electric one with a tempered glass top. Olivia ran her fingers over the impressive burners and oven timer—everything was so immaculate.

She opened the oven door, and reached her hand in— feeling the smoothness of the top rack. Next she ran her hand over the lower rack— and to her surprise, there was an awkward bump.

Olivia took out the object, and admired the Moleskine notebook with a black faux-leather cover. There was not a salesclerk nearby. Olivia opened the cover and noticed only blank pages without any identifiers. She found an inner pocket and removed a crisp lottery ticket. She scratched it with a confident finger stroke, noticing a winning pattern. “Oh my goodness!” she thought. “20,000 dollars!” Olivia smiled in disbelief, knowing this amount would make a gestational pregnancy within reach.

Olivia hid both the winning ticket and the newfound notebook in her pocketbook and made her way out back towards the street.

Black wasn’t a particularly cheerful color, though Olivia admired its mystique. She might eventually decoupage over some of its ivory pages. A transformational keepsake was in the works. Perhaps she’d start a homemade recipe book for her unborn child. This black book and its lucky ticket were the gateways to birthing freedom. A black book found in a random oven would eventually lead to a bun in her oven.