Before the ice is in the pools,
Before the skaters go,
Or any cheek at nightfall
Is tarnished by the snow,

Before the fields have finished,
Before the Christmas tree,
Wonder upon wonder
Will arrive to me!

What we touch the hems of
On a summer's day;
What is only walking
Just a bridge away;

That which sings so, speaks so,
When there's no one here,--
Will the frock I wept in
Answer me to wear?

The scene begins as Emily is eating a piece of her Black Cake:

"Mmmm. Lovely."

"No, no -- it's easy to make. The recipe? Of course. It's really very simple. Now, I'll go slowly."

(She places the cake on the tea cart.)

"Black Cake: two pounds of flour, two pounds of sugar, two pounds of butter, nineteen eggs, five pounds of raisins, one and a half pounds of currants, one and a half pounds of citron, one half pint of brandy -- I never use Father's best -- one half pint of molasses, two nutmegs, five teaspoons of cloves, mace, and cinnamon, and -- oh, yes, two teaspoons of soda, and one and a half teaspoons of salt."

(Emily has removed her apron.)

"Just beat the butter and sugar together, add the nineteen eggs, one at a time -- now this is very important -- without beating. Then, beat the mixture again, adding the brandy alternately with the flour, soda, spices, and salt that you've sifted together. Then the molasses. Now, take your five pounds of raisins, and three pounds of currants and citron, and gently sprinkle in all eight pounds -- slowly now -- as you stir. Bake for three hours if you use cake pans. If you use a milk pan, as I do, you'd better leave it in the oven six or seven hours."

"Everybody loves it. I hope you will too. Thank you."

(She hangs her apron on the back of the chair. Then she sits down and pours tea.)

"Sometimes I bake one for a neighbor and I enclose a short note that is usually so obscure . . .

(Gleefully)

". . . no one can understand it! I hear my little notes are becoming collectors' items in the village. People compare them to see who has the strangest one."

Meanwhile, I'm trying to absorb the full implications of this massive recipe. I think that perhaps some things are better left to the stage and to the printed page -- and kept out of my kitchen.