Moon Cakes
Celebrating the harvest moon,
Grandma opened the Eastern Bakery
boxes. Inside, palm-sized
cakes, each in its own waxy bag,
duck egg yolk in the center
with its thin sheen of oil, glistening
like a moon. I saved the yolk
for my last bite, letting the saltiness
surprise my mouth. The year I started
growing breasts, Sherilyn and I asked
our mother for the recipe. Too much trouble,
she answered. We’d made brownies
for the school bake sale so moon cakes
shouldn’t be difficult—red bean paste,
some pastry crust, pickled egg yolk.
I bought a wooden mold
from Ginn Wall Hardware and read
Wei-Chuan’s Chinese Cooking
for Beginners. We stuffed the cakes
into the round wells, flattening
the tops with our knuckles.
We whacked the mold against
the back of a chair, hoping the wood
wouldn’t crack and catching the cakes
when they flew out. In the oven,
all twenty exploded, yolks splitting
their delicate skin. That year, I thought
I might be dying from cancer, one nipple,
a hard lump, growing out from my chest.
When I screamed for my mother
in the bathroom, she told me, Shut up!
You’ll know later. From now on,
don’t let anyone touch you.
Does that mean I can’t play kickball?
I didn’t know about training bras
or anything until I read Are you there God?
It’s me, Margaret. Now, I want to create
moon cakes for the next generation.
This time, with fillings of Haagen-Dazs
ice cream or chocolate chip cheesecake.
I’ve ordered fuchsia plastic molds
from Malaysia, but I haven’t figured out
the egg yolk. What could you substitute
for a bright round moon?