My mother was a small-town girl born with big-city lights in her eyes. Frederick, Wisconsin, where she grew up, was her evil kingdom. She ran from the farmers with their torn overalls and muddy work boots as fast as her platform shoes would carry her and never looked back. I spent my childhood in the shadow of high-rise buildings. My pastimes included sifting through the archaeology of half-empty cocktail glasses, forgotten cigarette lighters, and lost earrings, remains of my parents' frequent parties. For me, Frederick was magical. When my memory travels there, time stops. In summer, the trees that lined Grandma Ella's street embraced, forming a whispering, green canopy. Winter brought branches swaddled in blankets of pristine snow. My grandmother's domain was her kitchen, where the smell of deliciousness surrounded her. The comforting scents of cinnamon, clove, and nutmeg were baked into her clothing. Every day she created a new treat—rhubarb pie, rye bread, spice cookies, chewy inside and topped with a brittle crust of sugar. My mother's favorites were molasses biscuits, hard enough to crack teeth. We visited Frederick rarely. So, my grandmother in her floral housedress, arms thrust deep into a bin of flour or sugar, became my icon. Her cast iron pan and oak rolling pin were holy relics. She was longed for, revered, and by virtue of her simplicity, incredibly mysterious. On the few occasions when she came to the city. It was deeply disturbing to see her black lace-up shoes cross our threshold. To me, she was a fragile alien who must be protected from a hostile environment. I worried that if she stayed too long, she would be transformed into one of the permed and girdled matrons who filled our apartment for Bridge Club. Although I didn't see her often, Grandma Ella was present throughout my childhood in a way that allowed her spirit to surround me while she remained safely cocooned in Frederick. Each holiday, a brown box tied with twine arrived in the mail. Opening the cardboard flaps released layers of confectionary perfume more heady than anything in the crystal bottles on my mother's dressing table. Meringue swirls, squares of fudge, sugar-iced Santas, Easter eggs or crimson Valentine hearts were lovingly tucked between sheets of colored tissue. As each layer was unwrapped, the image of my grandmother materialized more clearly. I imagined her leaning over the kitchen table, the wrinkled flesh on her upper arms swinging slightly as she bent into the rolling pin, her breath puffy with the effort. Under her hands, a mound of flour and butter transformed into a shining, yellow galaxy from which she cut and shaped wondrous creations. When the box was unpacked, the pastries displayed on china that once belonged to her, Grandma Ella's presence filled the room. As the cookies disappeared, her image faded, and Frederick grew as distant as the anemic, sickle moon suspended high above the city.