As soon as I was finished with my food, Mrs. Plum handed me a piece of paper.

"Today, I want to start by explaining the list of ingredients that go into my cake, and then have you watch me make the cake. You will only watch, Joseph. You have to see how it's done before you can start."

That sounded reasonable enough to me, so I nodded and looked over the list.

3 eggs (Eggland—extra large)

1 cup of flour

1 cup of white sugar (1.25 tops)

1 teaspoon of baking powder (NOT baking soda)

4 tablespoons of pineapple juice, unsweetened (squeeze from unused pineapple)

5 tablespoons of butter (unsalted—do NOT use low or reduced fat butter)

1 cup of brown sugar (1.25 tops)

5 2x2 inch pineapple slices for each slice of cake

1 1/3 cups of almonds

5 maraschino cherries (must be the same size)

Whipped cream with ½ teaspoon of vanilla (to be added after baking)

2 teaspoons of cinnamon (exactly!)

½ teaspoon of vanilla (exactly!)

"The last two ingredients weren't in my mother's recipe," Mrs. Plum confided.

"Yeah, she spent six months just trying to figure out how much cinnamon was enough and whether or not you needed to use vanilla," Grandma Mazur told me. "I suggested that she use chocolate instead, but she said it wouldn't work with the texture."

I gave the necessary sincere nod. "It looks…complicated."

Actually, it didn't. I mean, I recognized all of the ingredients, and while it might take a little while to get the hang of the measurements, it didn't seem like brain surgery or rocket science. The only thing I'd wondered about when reading the list was how to measure a half a teaspoon of something. Wasn't a teaspoon as small as something got?

I realized that I'd have to buy measuring cups and spoons. Well, maybe I could keep them hidden. Or maybe I wouldn't need to. It wasn't like Steph went rummaging through my drawers of pots and pans. In fact, that was probably the safest place to put the ring before I proposed. It currently resided in my desk at work.

"It's even trickier than it looks, because I don't put everything in all together at once," Mrs. Plum explained. "You probably looked at the eggs and thought they all go in at the same time, didn't you?"

"I'd assumed so," I admitted.

Mrs. Plum shook her head. "You put one egg in at the beginning, one egg white in after the first half cup of brown sugar, one egg yolk in after the vanilla, and the final egg white—the white only—after the first teaspoon of cinnamon."

I couldn't help it—I stared at her blankly. "Come again?"

She laughed. "Exactly. That's why it's not as simple as just following the instructions." She paused. "Well, technically, you do follow the instructions, but you will have to do it several times before you make anything edible."

I wondered if I'd still want to eat any of the cake by that point.

"It's like a dance," Grandma Mazur supplied. "When your partner does the one hop and then you have to step back, and then you spin her around and then she lifts one foot. If you don't get the steps in the right order at the right time, she'll kick you in the privates."

Okay, that made a little more sense. I nodded.

"That's why you'll have to do it at least five times before you will have anything edible. The first couple of times, you'll forget an ingredient, or use too much of one thing and too little of another. After awhile, you'll be doing this in your sleep."

At my grin, Grandma Mazur piped up, "Oh, she's not kidding. The first few times she got the new recipe right, Frank caught her in the kitchen in the middle of the night, making the cake. He told my husband that it looked downright scary since her eyes were closed, but her hands knew exactly what they were doing. The second time he caught her, it was in the oven before Frank woke up. Didn't he wake up because of the smell?"

Mrs. Plum smiled widely. "He ate four pieces then and there. It was my best one. I hadn't used the vanilla before then, but I guess my body knew what I was doing even though I was asleep."

Good thing sleepwalking didn't run in my family.

"And I'd never sleepwalked before then!" Mrs. Plum added. "Frank was so worried that he stuck a book in front of the door for awhile, so that I'd bang my foot and he'd hear me shout."

"So you've stopped now?" I inquired.

"Mostly. It was only when I'd work on revising an older recipe. I stopped doing that last year. Thought my desserts didn't need any more improving."

"They don't," I reassured her, partly because it was true and partly because I didn't want to worry that I'd started Mrs. Plum's sleepwalking again. "They're amazing."

She smiled at me. "Thank you, Joseph dear."

"Did you get all of your recipes from Grandma Mazur?"

Mrs. Plum frowned. "Five dessert ones. The rest came from cookbooks. The other four I got from my mother didn't need any work done. Let me see…there was the banana crème pie—if you're a fast learner with the cake, I might show you how to make that. It's one of Stephanie's favorites. There's also my mother's rice pudding. I added a hint of lemon to it, but it was nearly perfect the way it was. Our spice cake recipe runs in the family, so I couldn't interfere with that. The last one was poppy seed cake, but I hardly ever make it because Frank claims it's too healthy. Even if I use twice as much butter!"

I laughed politely at the last one. I'd never even heard of the poppy seed cake, and certainly couldn't remember eating it. Maybe that was a good thing, since those seeds tend to get stuck in my teeth for days on end.

"The recipe I had to change the most was the apple pie. It was wonderful before, Mom," she reassured Grandma Mazur, "but I had a dream in which there were orange slices in the pie as well as apple slices. At one point, I mixed in pineapples, but it didn't turn out so well because of the lumps. I also added more cinnamon to the pie to give it that extra flavor."

That dessert was one I remembered easily. The first time Stephanie had brought it back to my house, she'd only let me eat the tiniest sliver of a piece. When I grabbed a second helping without asking her, she practically kicked me out of my own house. Now, we pretty much split the leftover pie fifty-fifty, but she always brings home more pie than any other dessert. Well, any dessert except for the pineapple upside down cake.

Grandma Mazur glanced at the clock. "So, are you two going to start the cooking lesson, or just chit chat all afternoon? Because I'm getting hungry for some of that pineapple cake right about now."

Mrs. Plum glared at her mother. "I'm giving him instructions."

"Yeah, but you're not doing any cooking. How's he going to figure out how to make the cake if he doesn't see you make it?"

Mrs. Plum muttered something about her mother having a point, and told me where to stand while she made the cake so I could get the best visual angle without being in the way. A part of me wondered if I should be taking notes.

Seeing Mrs. Plum at work really forced home the fact that I would not be assembling the cake anytime soon. It was like a dance, with the mixing bowl and ingredients as her partner. It was effortless for Mrs. Plum, but I'd have broken my leg trying to imitate her. Well, all right, maybe just stubbed a toe.

While the cake baked, we had exactly forty minutes before the cake had to come out of the oven. She was very particular about it being forty minutes to the second. She'd brought out a timer at one point, and kept an eye on it the entire time the cake was baking. Mrs. Plum went over the details I'd have to keep an eye on so I could determine if the cake was worth keeping even before slicing it. After all, I wanted to present a full cake to Steph, didn't I? At least at that point, I knew exactly what she meant. Stuff about the thickness of the eggs and the importance of mixing the vanilla into the mix for exactly thirty seconds might have gone over my head, but I knew enough to understand that a cake which hadn't been cut into looked a lot better than one that had.

"Of course, there's a trick that you can use to be extra sure," Mrs. Plum told me. "I'll demonstrate it to you after we take it out."

By "we", she meant "her", of course. I wasn't allowed to get within an arm's reach of the cake—which was more than fine with me, at least at this point.

When it was time to remove the cake from the oven, she put it on the stove and set the timer for exactly three minutes.

"At three minutes, exactly, I have to turn the cake upside down and take it out of the pan," she explained. "This way, the pineapple pieces will be on the top, instead of on the bottom."

"Excuse me, Mrs. Plum, but why don't you just put the pineapple pieces on the top?" I asked, figuring she had a good enough reason.

"They'd dry out," she replied. "I'd tried that in the past, and it was a near disaster. Besides, there's a reason it's called a pineapple upside down cake!"

Grandma Mazur snorted. "What my daughter means is, the cake still tasted good, but the pineapple pieces were all dried up and shriveled. You need the pineapple to be soaked by the other ingredients so it gets all buttery and full of caramel. When Helen put the pieces on top and baked them, it was like chewing on flavored plastic."

"Exactly." Mrs. Plum seemed to shudder at the memory.

"The cake was still good, but it was more of a pineapple juice cake than a pineapple upside down cake," Grandma Mazur added. "You can't have a pineapple upside down cake without pineapples."

As soon as the timer went off, Mrs. Plum grabbed the cake contained and flipped it onto a plate. She held her breath as the last pineapple slice seemed to stick to the tray for an extra five seconds, then let it out as the pineapple dropped from the tray and onto the cake.

"What happens if it stays in the tray when I do it?" I wondered.

"You take a fork and remove it from the tray and onto the cake. Carefully! But it looks better, more symmetrical, if it comes out on its own."

"Not that it matters," Grandma Mazur cut in. "The whole thing gets covered in whipped cream. Heck, you can add the dang pineapples later, for all the difference it makes."

Mrs. Plum glared at her mother. "It makes a world of difference in the taste. Didn't you just say that part of the appeal of putting the pineapples in the batter was so it tasted better? It would just taste like pineapple cake if you put the pineapples on top later!"

Grandma made a "hmph" noise in recognition.

"Now that the hard part is done, all we need to do is add the whipped cream," Mrs. Plum told me. She opened the refrigerator and took out a bowl of cream. I expected her to take a spoon and smooth some of it on top, but then she disappeared and came back with a mixer. "I'm going to spend some time teaching you how to whip the cream when you've finished learning everything else, so I want you to watch me do it today." She retrieved the vanilla from the spice cabinet and measured out a tiny amount using one of the spoons.

I half expected Mrs. Plum to end up with half of the cream splattered on her by the time she'd finished whipping it, but there wasn't even one drop on her hands or clothing. I suspected that I wouldn't be so lucky the first few times.

Or ever.

She spread the now whipped cream over the cake and announced that it was complete.

"You said there was a way to tell if it would taste all right without cutting into it?" I asked Mrs. Plum.

She nodded, smiling, obviously pleased that I remembered. "You take a sample from the bottom, like this." She turned the cake on its side—I was amazed to see that none of the whipped cream spilled over when she did this—and poked at an edge with a toothpick. A small piece of cake came out. She did the same thing a second time, and a tiny hole formed. She removed the cake and put it on the side of the plate.

"It's thick, and the color is right," Mrs. Plum told me. Then, she popped it into her mouth and swallowed. "The last test is the taste test. It passed that as well. You probably won't be able to rely on the taste test by the time I've finished with your crash course, so you should rely on the thickness and the color. If it's thick but not sticky, then that's good. If the color looks like what you saw, or a tiny bit darker, then that's what you need. If it's too dark, then the cake is overcooked. If it's too light, it's undercooked. Of course, if it's undercooked, then it will also appear sticky, and you'll know that you did something wrong."

I repeated this to make sure that I understood it. "Thick but not sticky. Light yellow color. There should be crumbs?"

"Perfect." Mrs. Plum opened the drawer and removed three forks. Then, she took another plate from one of the cabinets and cut off a slice. "That's for you." She did the same thing again. "And that's for you, mom."

"Looks good," Grandma Mazur approved. She took a whiff of the cake. "Smells good, too."

Mrs. Plum cut another slice, this time for herself, and sat down at the table. I followed her and chewed on the cake. I'd eaten pineapple upside down cake before at the Plum home more times than I could count, and each time it had been tasty and I'd gone for seconds. This time, eating it straight out of the oven, was another experience entirely. It was pretty damn good. The cake was so warm I half expected steam to rise from it. At the same time, it wasn't hot enough to burn your tongue, just warm enough that I wanted to swallow the pieces without taking the time to chew them. The whipped cream tasted the same as usual, but I guessed that there wasn't much change that could occur in whipped cream after it settling for an hour or so. I wondered how often Stephanie had eaten slices of their cake straight from the oven. I could see why Steph would do just about anything for a slice of pineapple upside down cake, but I was beginning to wonder—yet again—how I'd be able to make it for her. I'd love to serve it to her still warm, but that would take extra careful timing. Maybe I'd be able to do that for our anniversary. She'd love that.

Of course, I had to be careful that the other cops in the precinct didn't find out about this. I could just imagine the nicknames they'd come up with, the well meaning—yet still totally embarrassing—teasing that would occur. If they ever found out, I'd have to make it clear that it had been a one shot deal, that the baking lessons were because I loved Steph, and not because I had any aspirations of becoming a professional pastry chef.

I knew that I was committed to making the cake. But I'd do it at Mrs. Plum's house on the day I proposed, and have her do the toothpick test to make sure it had turned out all right.

I formulated this plan to Mrs. Plum after finishing off my second piece, and she voiced her approval.

"I'd hate to see your budding skills wasted on such an important occasion," she told me. "I'd be happy to test it for you. It won't be for awhile, though."

"How long do you think it will take?" I queried.

She considered. "If you came over on Sundays and one more day during the week, and did all of the homework I assigned in the meantime, I think I could have you ready in four or five weeks."

"Sundays are fine, but during the week would be trickier," I told her. "I usually work long hours. I could schedule it in to leave early, but I wouldn't be able to make it over here before 7."

"7 is fine," Stephanie's mother reassured me. "We eat dinner at 6. Would Wednesdays work for you? I'd like it to be in the middle of the week so you have time to practice."

I chewed on my lip, having finished with the cake. "Wednesdays would work. Not this Wednesday, but all of the others are okay."

"Then I'll need you to practice twice as much before next Sunday," Mrs. Plum admonished. "Unless you can come over on Thursday?"

I mentally reviewed my schedule in my head. I'd have to go in earlier that day, and maybe stay later on Friday, but I'd make it work.

"Thursday is fine."

"Good." She smiled. "Now that we have that settled, have you given any thought to what you're going to tell Stephanie about this? She'll see that something's off when you come home smelling like dessert."

I hadn't thought that far ahead, but before I could say anything to this extent, Grandma Mazur was talking. "Could we just tell her the truth—or part of it? That you're teaching Joseph some of your dessert recipes."

But Mrs. Plum was shaking her head. "She'd want to know why, and say I was interfering, and guess that you were going to propose. She might even figure out that you wanted to make her favorite dessert, and it would take all of the fun out of it."

Yes, it sure would.

I stared at the empty plate and thought for awhile. Finally, I came up with an alternative.

"I'm pretty handy around the house. I could tell her you're having me help with some household projects, because your husband's back isn't doing great?"

Mrs. Plum thought this idea over. "Mom, do you think that Stephanie would believe that?"

"Probably, as long as her Hottie came home in a dirty shirt. He could tell her that the food smell was some snack you fed him on account of he was missing dinner." Grandma Mazur narrowed her eyes. "'Course, then Steph would start noticing that he always smelled like the pineapple upside down cake…"

"I'll save some dessert from whatever I made, and you can eat some here and bring the rest home to Stephanie," Mrs. Plum amended. "That would cover up most of the pineapple smell."

Grandma Mazur grinned. "Maybe you should do some physical labor, too, so the smells get mixed in. Take your shirt off and all of that."

I tried hard not to turn red. "I wouldn't mind changing your car's oil or something, Mrs. Plum," I told her. It would look consistent enough with my story, and she was doing me a favor by showing me how to make the cake.

"I'll ask Frank if he needs any help working on projects," she promised. "For now, though, you should just save a dirty shirt for the return trip on the days you take baking lessons here." She frowned. "Maybe a few shirts, so that Stephanie doesn't get suspicious."

"She would, too," Grandma Mazur added. "That one's real observant. Goes with being a bounty hunter."

I couldn't think of anything to say to that, so I just nodded and smiled for what felt like the tenth time that afternoon. I checked the clock. It was past 3:30. I'd been there much longer than I had expected.

"I better get going," I told the women. "Steph might be wondering where I am. Um, Mrs. Plum? You said you were going to give me homework?"

"I think you should practice separating eggs," Mrs. Plum replied after a moment's hesitation. "That's all you can do for now. I wouldn't want you to try assembling the recipe yet." Then she paused. "Make sure you have all of the cooking items on hand before you return. A mixer, the sets of spoons, the necessary cups, and so forth. If you need any help figuring out what to buy, give me a call."

"Right." I stood up. "Thanks again. I really appreciate it."

Mrs. Plum gave me another rib cracking hug. "I'm happy to help, Joseph."

Grandma Mazur stood up to give me a hug, and whispered in my ear, "I still say you should skip the cake and just propose after sex. Or propose with the cake, have sex, and then eat the cake."

I knew she was seconds away from pinching my butt, so I retreated from the hug immediately. I gave Mrs. Plum a hug and another round of thanks. Finally, I let out a barely audible sigh and retreated out the front door. Stephanie's car was parked outside my house when I returned.

Shit.

I hope she'd buy the whole "your dad hurt his back and I'm going to be helping him around the house" story her mom and I had concocted.

A/N: If you enjoyed this chapter, please take a minute to leave a constructive review. Thanks!