Naked truth chapter 4 - baking is a serious matter
Latched key children know …
It was one of those October days when the rain seemed to enrage everyone, cloaking the world in heavy drops, clogging the drainage systems, and creating rivers down the street.
Martha looked outside and smiled a sad smile. Nothing different from Communism and the broken drainage systems—sometimes no system can handle the overflow. Too much, too quickly. Who knows maybe there are a few dead animals piled up down the drains, rats or birds or mice, sending one last message to humanity before being transformed into a mulch of bones, flesh, skin, dead leaves. Who knows?
West, East—there’s no real difference. Nature is nature, and human error is everywhere, like trying to put out fires constantly while the routine tasks go undone.
Martha held a cup of tea, her fingers wrapped around the warmth as she watched a few raindrops travel down the window, weaving intricate patterns only she could see. Suddenly, a wolf's head appeared in the droplets, its piercing eyes staring straight into her soul. The sight startled her, jolting her into action. She had to do something—something new, something different.
Two overripe bananas lay on the counter, practically screaming at her, "If not now, it’s the bin!" Out of nowhere, Martha decided to bake.
"Bake? Is this a joke?" Baking is not my bloody bag” she muttered, half expecting some invisible guide to answer. And then, without warning, a flashback hit her… …
It was Sunday again, and Martha’s mind drifted back to her childhood, to the warm, fragrant kitchen filled with the comforting scents of nutmeg, cinnamon, walnuts, and lemon peel. The "ferret," as they called her, was at the stove, busy cooking. She loved making sweets and was especially skilled at it. Never one for experimentation, she stuck to the recipes she knew, but her execution was impeccable.
Each of her creations was labor-intensive, earning her admiration at work the next day when she shared them with her colleagues. It was a common practice back then, but in the vast clothes factory where she worked with 10,000 other women, it became the highlight of every Monday. The factory wasn’t just the largest in the country—it was renowned for its exceptional craftsmanship, winning international contracts that made it famous far beyond its borders.
Under communism in her country, manufacturing was the lifeblood of the system. From nails to cars, agricultural machinery to clothing, everything was produced domestically. Self-sufficiency was a key goal of the regime, with the party emphasizing that the nation must rely on its own resources.
Suddenly, she found herself transported back, sitting on the low red chairs, in the small but topical cosy kitchen identical almost in size to 80%of the new blocks of flats build in the last 10 years, looking at the patterned tiles, hands neatly folded in her lap. She watched the ferret make the dough, the oven open, waiting to work its magic with the precious ingredients.
She felt small, intimidated—never allowed to touch anything for fear of causing a catastrophe. Years later, the ferret’s words echoed in her ears: “You never even tried to do anything in the kitchen! Who's going to marry you?” The frustration and tears always welled up behind her eyes, but she had learned to keep them hidden. Speaking up only led to conflict, and no matter how high her voice rose in defence, there was nothing to win..
Another flashback hit her out of nowhere! She must have been 8 or 9 when, for her birthday, a neighbor gifted her a brightly colored children’s cookbook. Martha adored it, and one summer day, during the long, warm days of her holiday, she decided to surprise the ferret by making jam. The recipe was unusual—jam made from watermelon skins—and the novelty of it excited her.
She could still remember the crisp, cool feeling of the watermelon as she pulled it from the fridge. She devoured the sweet, juicy flesh first, leaving behind only the thick, pale rind. Her mind buzzed with excitement as she rolled up her sleeves, unfazed by the knife in her hand. She’d learned how to use it, so she confidently began chopping the skin into small, even pieces just like the book showed.
The black seeds scattered across the table like tiny pebbles, and the sticky red juice left trails on the table and smeared her fingers. She didn’t mind; she licked her fingers clean with gusto and carried on, the anticipation of creating something new filling her with joy. Her only thought was to make something special for the ferret and her father.
Using the stove didn’t scare her either. After all, she was what people in those days called a 'latchkey kid,' literally wearing the house key on an elastic band around her neck for safekeeping. She would come home from school to an empty flat, heat her own food, and do her homework until 6 o’clock in the evening when her parents came home from work. She had been raised with the independence of a child who knew the basics of survival
Martha knew how to turn on the stove, how to heat things up without causing trouble. The idea of making jam from scratch was pure exhilaration—a blend of daring and delight.
Hours later, with sticky counters and dirty pans scattered everywhere, Martha heard the familiar rattle of the key in the door. The ferret had come home early from work. Martha froze, her heart dropping into her stomach. How could she be so unlucky?
The ferret's sharp voice cut through the air: “What is this mess all about?” Her eyes scanned the kitchen, filled with frustration. “Look at the disaster you’ve made! How could you do this?”
Martha’s breath caught in her throat. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but when she tried to explain, no words came. Her mouth moved, but everything felt trapped inside, voiceless. The few sounds that escaped felt foreign, broken. It was the beginning of her stuttering—a battle with words that would stay with her for some years.
Hours later, when her dad returned from work, the ferret launched into the saga as if the whole house had burned down. Martha could still hear her dad's voice, calm but firm, saying, "You said what? She’s just a child! She was trying to do something special for us!"
"Yes, but the mess—" the ferret interrupted, her tone sharp.
"Forget about the mess! You couldn’t say at least one kind word to her? Even one?" her father shot back.
Martha listened from her room, hearing the conversation as clearly as if she were standing right there with them—the walls were so thin. She knew then that her father understood. He really did.
End of chapter 4
Until next time, be well!
One of my dreams is to write a novel, inspired by real events but with a touch of fiction in it. Will it happen? I don’t know! Writing as and when I find the energy and time while navigating the choppy waters of life.
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Read chapter 3 here
Naked truth - chapter 3 - Bambi
It was spring—this much she remembered! The linden tree in front of the block of flats had just begun to unfurl its buds into dazzling green leaves, promising a myriad of flowers in a month or so.
Karina, I like your post. I have a story of my own, I will share with you on jam, marmalade, fruit syrup and fruit juice, from my childhood to our times.
Oh I love this, yet so sad