The Raspberry Necromancer

With the right amount of sugar and butter, I suspect I can bring the dead back to life.

Necromancy, like baking, requires precision. It’s both science and magic. I can’t expect the magic to work without the right ratio of flour to water to sugar. I can’t overmix.

I imagine myself shorter again, standing on top of the stepstool to see over the counter. Mom let me mash the raspberries with a mortar and pestle, then I scooped it into the potion, making my hands red and sticky. I licked them clean. She made me wash them before handling the dough.

Eggs, flour, dough, salt, baking powder. I complete the mixing ritual and arrange the circles of ceremonial dough into the bed of the tarts. It looks as it should, even though I’m taller now, and don’t need a stool to see. They will rise with life, if I have faith.

I make four. One for me, one for mom, one for dad, and the secret fourth. Mom and I used to split and eat it before dad came home from work. She would always say, “Don’t tell papa, it’s our little secret.” Years later, I did tell him, and he wasn’t angry. “Of course she did that,” he laughed. “Of course.”

The raspberry reduces in the bubbling cauldron, filling my home with its cloying aroma. The spell is working. 

I pour the lush filling in the center of each tart. The oven tells me it’s hot enough. I can hear my mom’s voice say, “Bake at 425 for ten minutes, then reduce to 350 for fifteen.” She would let me watch cartoons while we waited, and she washed the dishes. I play the old show in the background, but since I’m big now, I can make the kitchen spotless for her.

The edges of the tarts are flaky and golden brown. I did the spell correctly, but the final step is the most important. As they cool, I set one on the window sill, along with half of the secret fourth. I save the one for my dad in a tupperware, after drawing a little heart with a toothpick like she used to do.

I hold the tart to my mouth, feeling its buttery heat on my fingertips. The sunlight comes through the slats in the blinds, illuminating the fabric of my mother’s flour-coated apron, the one with little rabbits and carrots dancing around the border. I bite into it. It gives way like the heart gives way to grief, crumbling and natural, so sweet it stings the eyes. 

She is right next to me again. There is raspberry filling on the dimple of her smile. “Do you like it?” she asks. The stars in my eyes give her my answer.