She carefully laid out all the ingredients: eggs, butter, flour, vanilla, sugar, chocolate. She studied the recipe for a long time, glad that her mom had color-coded the amounts for her. Pink meant the large measuring cup, yellow meant the small measuring cup, green was a spoonful. Colors she could understand, whereas numbers tended to dance on the page, dance away to other deep places, places that were no longer involved in baking and creating, destinations where basic symbols and printed letters mysteriously flipped and reflected one another, playing cruel tricks on her brain, teasing her into believing she could decode them if she just concentrated a little bit harder …
“Andrea! You made a cake! By yourself!”
She grinned shyly, nodding. “Yes, happy birthday, Mother.” Andrea lit the candles cautiously and began to sing for her mother.
They ate the dry, overly-sweet cake together, and when Andrea left the room to use the bathroom, her mother checked the oven to make sure Andrea had remembered to turn it off.
It was still on. Of course it was.
this week's challenge: write a short essay using the word "deep" in the sense of "difficult to penetrate or comprehend"