Lunar Love (81)

“How can I not be?” I weep. Colette hands me a tissue from Mae Yí-Pó’s desk.

“She lived to be ninety years old! That’s worth celebrating!” Mae Yí-Pó says in a more optimistic tone.

“That sounds so…cheery,” I say between sniffles.

“She hit a longevity milestone most of us could only hope for. The long, full life she lived is worth being happy about. I know that’s how she felt about it.” A small smile spreads across Mae Yí-Pó’s face. “By no means was she perfect, but she was as close as one could come. Her life is worth celebrating.”

“I never thought about it like that,” I say, more tears pricking the back of my eyes. “I can’t stand the thought of her suffering alone.”

“Oh, honey.” Mae Yí-Pó reaches over and grabs my hand. “She never felt like she was doing anything alone. She loved many and was loved by many. Your Pó Po was never one to make things about herself. She knew that if you were too busy worrying about her, you wouldn’t have been able to worry about yourself. And she cared for her family more than anything else in this world. It would’ve destroyed her more to see you all fuss over her.”

“I just…” I trail off. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

“Because it’s not goodbye,” Mae Yí-Pó says. “This feels like an impossible loss. It will for a while. But you’ll soon learn that this isn’t the end. We take care of our ancestors when they’re gone, and while that doesn’t bring them back here to us, we become connected to them in a different way.”

I look over at Colette, who nods along with me, even though we seem to have no clue what she means. At this point, I’ll believe anything if it means I can be close to Pó Po.

“I have an idea.” Mae Yí-Pó stands and reaches for three aprons, handing us each one. “Let’s bake,” she says reassuringly.

“Now?” I ask.

Mae Yí-Pó sharply nods. “Right now. Like we used to.”

I feel the tension melting out of my shoulders. “Okay.”

“Let’s do it,” Colette says as she sweeps her dark brown hair into a low ponytail.

Mae Yí-Pó, Colette, and I sift flour, whisk sugar into yolks, and whip egg whites into stiff peaks. It’s a dreamlike feeling that brings me back to when we were kids.

“The secret to the Swiss roll’s fluffy sponge cake is how gentle you are with adding the egg whites into the mixture,” she says, delicately using her spatula to scrape the sides of the bowl and fold the airy peaks over themselves. “Don’t overdo it.”

I watch her skilled movements, allowing myself to get lost in the soft folds of batter. She pours the mixture into a parchment-lined baking pan and slides the tray into the oven. While the cake bakes, we make the filling.

“Do you remember the first time I taught you how to bake?” Mae Yí-Pó shouts out to me as she pulls heavy whipping cream from the walk-in fridge.

“Barely. That was so long ago,” I say. “Do you?”

Mae Yí-Pó nods as she mixes cream and sugar together. “You were so bored waiting around at Lunar Love for your Pó Po and Auntie. You told me that they allowed you to come here, when instead you had actually just left to do your own thing.” She laughs.

I smile. “Sounds about right.”

“Your Pó Po called to make sure you got here safely.”

“How’d she know I’d come here?”

“Because she knew you,” Mae Yí-Pó says kindly.

“I guess some things never change,” I say, shaking my head with a laugh.

Colette laughs along with me as she opens the oven door. “This is ready,” she says, removing a clean toothpick from the center of the cake.

“She waited all afternoon until you came back on your own time,” Mae Yí-Pó explains, lifting the sheet tray out of the oven with mitts.

“Was she mad that I had just disappeared?” I ask, the smell of vanilla permeating the air.

Mae Yí-Pó waves her hands. “She could never stay mad at you for long. You’d come sometimes, too, Colette.”

“What did we love making most?” Colette asks.

“Swiss rolls,” Mae Yí-Pó says with a wink. “You always wanted to make an entire roll to bring back to your family. Your Pó Po said it was the best cake she had ever eaten.”

After letting the cake cool slightly, Mae Yí-Pó delicately pushes the warm cake into a parchment-covered log. “It’s all about the pre-roll,” she says, tiptoeing her fingers skillfully along the edges. “This gives the cake its shape so that when it cools, it’s still flexible.”

“So that’s the secret,” I mumble. “I could never get that right.”

“It just requires a little guidance, patience, and a light touch,” Mae Yí-Pó replies.

While we wait for the cake to drop in temperature, we fall into silence, moving around one another as we wash the workspace clean with damp rags. Once the drips of batter have been wiped from the counters and the mixing bowls and testing spoons are loaded into the dishwasher, we’re ready to fill and reroll.