“Perhaps.”
I sighed heavily. “We lack sufficient metal baking tins.”
He broke into a huge grin. “Mrs. Jean promised we could use hers.”
“You already spoke with Mrs. Jean?”
I pointed directly at him. “You wear me out.”
He wrapped his arms around me. “Please do this.”
I managed to resist for approximately three seconds.
Then I finally gave in. “Alright. However, when this cooking area turns into a disaster zone, I need it on record that I voiced my objections.”
He kissed my cheek. “You are the greatest.”
“Incorrect,” I replied. “Merely a pushover.”
Saturday morning looked as though a flour bomb had exploded inside our kitchen.
Pieces of fruit covered everything. The smell of spice filled the apartment. Sticky dough coated the counters, the linoleum, and somehow even the biscuit container. Noah had white flour tangled in his hair and smeared across his face.
I commented, “How did that end up on your forehead?”
He rubbed his cheek. “Did I get it?”
“That is certainly not your forehead.”
By the time we reached pie number twenty-six, I muttered, “Next time, just mail them a greeting card.”
Noah laughed warmly. “You are performing wonderfully.”
At one point, he became quiet, rolling out the dough with that particular expression he gets whenever he is carrying thoughts that feel too heavy to say immediately.
I asked, “What is running through your mind right now?”
He kept working with his hands. “Do you ever fear that certain folks feel completely unseen?”
I stopped peeling fruit. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
He shrugged slightly. “Everyone claims children require focus, which is true. Yet elderly individuals need it as well. Occasionally I suspect society stops viewing them as actual human beings.”
I watched him silently for several seconds.
Eventually, I answered, “Yes. I believe that definitely occurs.”
He nodded firmly. “I refuse to let that happen when I am around.”
By the time we finally loaded the finished pies into Mrs. Jean’s small vehicle, the entire car smelled strongly of melted butter and warm spices.
When we arrived at the senior facility, the receptionist blinked several times and gasped, “Oh my heavens.”
Noah smiled politely. “We delivered some sweets.”
“This entire batch?”
Noah nodded. “Assuming that is acceptable.”
“Sweetheart,” the receptionist replied, “acceptable does not even begin to cover it.”
They led us into the main common area. Several residents were playing cards. Others sat watching the television without really paying attention.
Then the smell reached them.
Faces turned in our direction.
I watched my son crouch beside people, ask their names, and genuinely listen to their answers.
An older gentleman wearing a dark blue sweater stood and asked, “Is that fruit filling?”
Noah responded, “Yes, sir.”
The man lifted one hand to his mouth. “My spouse used to prepare fruit fillings.”
A small woman sitting near the window murmured, “I caught the scent of spice long before I spotted you.”
Noah placed the first tin on a nearby table and began cutting slices.
The gentleman in the dark blue sweater took one bite and closed his eyes tightly.
Then he reached for Noah’s hand.
“I have not tasted a pastry like this since my Mary passed away,” he murmured.
Noah gently squeezed his fingers. “Then I am thrilled you received a slice today.”
The older man swallowed with difficulty. “What are you called, young man?”
“Noah.”
“My name is Charles.”
