Javier was standing in the kitchen wearing flip-flops, boxer shorts, and an apron. No shirt under the apron. His head was dripping with sweat as if he’d run a marathon. (or walked across the room) Cracked egg shells littered the counters and the floor around his feet. He had several pots boiling and in the oven were 2 pans with yellow cake in each. This was a typical Saturday morning in Javier’s attic apartment.
“JLB, how come you not lettin me help with the cakes” Cinnamon whined.
“I told you, this is mother Bruce Bruce’s recipe and she ain’t gonna have some woman who ain’t even a real Bruce Bruce cookin her cherished recipe.” JLB snapped back with a short rude tone that Javier takes with everyone, even if he is sleeping with em. (His mother’s lemon cake recipe has been a favorite of JLB’s since he was little. When other children were playing baseball or climbing trees, little Javier would be in the kitchen with momma baking the perfect lemon cake)
This particular morning JLB knew he was doing his mother proud. This was going to be the perfect cake. In less than 20 minutes the lemony, sugary goodness would be ready for eating.
While he waited for the cake to bake he hopped in the shower because cooking always made him particularly sweaty. After a quick shower he strutted through the apartment with a beach towel around his waist still wearing the same flip-flops from earlier.
“CINNAMON! What’s the temp?” JLB shouted
“whatchoo mean what’s the temp”? Cinnamon still wasn’t accustomed to Javier’s inexplicable need to abbreviate.
“THE TEMP. WHAT’S THE TEMP WOMAN? Do I gotta wear my jams or proper pants”? (jams are the long shorts that go down to just below the knee, Javier wears those)
“It’s cold, you gotta wear pants today. It’s 70 down in ATL right now. Wish we lived there, instead of this cold ass apartment in da attic of a damn church.” But as soon as Cinnamon said it she regretted it.
“Ain’t nobody keepin yo ass in Ohio.” JLB screamed “Get on outta here if you gonna act like a fool”.
Cinnamon didn’t fight back. It was no use. She wanted to move to Atlanta and perhaps Javier would never feel the same way. She went into the living room, sat on the couch and pined about how Cincinnati would never be as good as Atlanta.
After he got dressed, Javier donned reading glasses and flipped through the latest issue of Jet magazine while waiting for the cake to finish. DING. As soon as the oven timer went off he leapt to his feet throwing the magazine toward Cinnamon and ran to the kitchen. After pulling the cake from the oven and drizzling the sugary goodness over each layer then combining them, the Saturday morning lemon cake was finally ready for consumption. He didn’t even get a plate. Just carried the entire cake pan and a fork into the living room. He sat down in his chair and dug in. This was going to be a great Saturday afternoon. Season 3 of The Cosby Show on DVD and an entire lemon cake.
About half way through the cake Javier looked across the room at Cinnamon and said. “When you done cleanin the kitchen there’s some left over turkey burgers in the fridge if you hungry.”





